HEROIC  SPAIN 


A  SPANISH  HIDALGO,  BY  EL  GRECO 


HEROIC    SPAIN 


BY 


E.  BOYLE   O'REILLY 

" 


NEW    YORK 
DUFFIELD   AND   COMPANY 

1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1910 

BY   DUFFIELD   AND   COMPANY 


THE  UNIVERSITY   PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE,    U.  S.  A. 


o 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION  :  PRACTICAL  HINTS 1 

ESPANA  LA  HEROIC  A:  VERSES  .     .  * 12 

IN  THE  BASQUE  COUNTRY  :  LOYOLA 13 

BURGOS  AND  THE  CID 33 

VALLADOLID 55 

OviEDO    IN   THE    AsTURIAS 79 

THE  SLEEPING  CITIES  OF  LEON 104 

GALICIA 

SALAMANCA 

SEGOVIA 159 

SAINT  TERESA  AND  A  VILA 183 

EVENING  IN  AVILA:  VERSES 212 

MADRID  AND  THE  ESCORIAL 213 

TOLEDO 229 

CORDOVA  AND  GRANADA 258 

VIGNETTES  OF  SEVILLE 274 

A  CHURCH  FEAST  IN  SEVILLE 293 

HOLY  WEEK  IN  SEVILLE 302 

CADIZ .     .  316 

A  FEW  MODERN  NOVELS                                            .  326 


vi  Contents 

PAGE 

ESTREMADURA 

ARAGON 

MINOR  CITIES  OF  CATALONIA 385 

BARCELONA 395 

GERONA  AND  FAREWELL  TO  SPAIN 420 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 
A  Spanish  Hidalgo,  by  El  Greco  ....     Frontispiece 

Burgos  Cathedral  from  the  Castle  Hill 36 

The  Fa£ade  of  San  Gregorio,  Valladolid     ....  58 

The  Cathedral  of  Leon   .     .     .     . 108 

View  of  Salamanca  from  the  Roman  Bridge    .     .     .  142 

Fa£ade  of  the  University  Library,  Salamanca      .     .  154 

The  Alcazar  of  Segovia 182 

House  of  the  Duque  de  la  Roca,  Avila 196 

Isabella  of  Portugal,  by  Titian 223 

Prado  Gallery,  Madrid 

Tomb  of  Bishop  San  Segundo,  by  Berruguete,  Avila  256 

Los  Seises,  Cathedral  of  Seville 299 

St.  Francis  of  Assisi 327 

A  wood-carving  by  Carmona,  Museum  of  Leon 

A  Roadside  Scene  in  Spain 354 

The  Cathedral  of  Siguenza 374 

Cloisters  of  San  Pablo  del  Campo,  Barcelona  .     .     .  403 

A  Street  Stairway,  Gerona 420 


HEROIC  SPAIN 

"Let  nothing  disturb  thee, 
Nothing  affright  thee, 
Ml  things  are  passing, 
God  never  changeth. 
Patient  endurance 
Attaineth  to  all  things, 
Who  God  possesseth 
In  nothing  is  wanting. 
Alone  God  sufficeth" 

MAXIMS  OF  SAINT  TERESA 


"All  national  criticism  in  bulk  is  misleading  and 
foolish,  and  I  look  on  the  belief  of  Spaniards  that  Spain 
ought  to  be  great  and  strong  as  the  most  promising 
agency  of  her  future  regeneration/' 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

At  Minister  to  Spain,  in  a  letter  Oct.  20,  1877 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


INTRODUCTION 

PRACTICAL   HINTS 

TRAVEL  in  Spain  to-day  is  attended  with  little 
hardship  and  no  danger  whatever.  Even  if  one 
barely  knows  a  word  of  the  language,  it  is  not 
foolhardy  to  explore  the  distant  provinces.  Com- 
mit a  few  simple  sentences  to  the  memory  and 
have  courage  in  using  them,  for  Spanish  is  pro- 
nounced just  as  it  is  spelled,  with  a  few  excep- 
tions soon  observed.  The  merest  beginner  is 
understood. 

When  a  trip  into  Spain  is  planned  it  would  be 
well  to  send  for  information  about  the  kilometric 
ticket  to  the  Chemins  de  Per  Espagnols,  20  Rue 
Chauchat,  Paris.  They  will  mail  you,  gratis,  a 
pamphlet  with  a  map  of  the  country,  where  is 
marked  the  number  of  kilometers  between  the 
cities;  from  this  it  is  easy  to  calculate  how  large 
a  ticket  to  buy.  The  more  kilometers  taken  at 
one  time,  the  cheaper  it  is.  Thus  a  ticket  of 
2,000  k.  costs  165  pesetas;  one  of  5,000  k.  costs 
385  p.,  and  so  on.  We  got  a  10,000  kilometric 
ticket  for  two  people,  first  class,  good  for  ten 
months,  paying  for  it  682  pesetas.  If  the  ticket 
is  bought  outside  of  Spain  you  pay  for  it  in 


2  Heroic  Spain 

francs,  whereas  if  bought  in  Spain,  you  pay 
in  pesetas,  which  are  about  fifteen  per  cent  less 
than  francs.  Provide  yourself  with  your  photo- 
graph, and  at  the  first  Spanish  town  —  Irun,  if 
you  come  from  Paris,  and  Port-Bou  if  from 
Marseilles  —  as  there  is  always  a  pause  of  some 
hours  on  the  frontier  for  the  customs,  it  is 
a  simple  matter  to  buy  your  carnet  kilome- 
trique  in  the  station.  It  is  only  on  one  or  two 
short  local  lines  that  these  tickets  are  not  ac- 
cepted. Unfortunately  the  new  rail  from  Gi- 
braltar up  to  Bobadilla,  by  way  of  which  many 
tourists  enter  Spain,  is  one  of  these  disoblig- 
ing minor  lines.  In  fact  many  who  start  their 
trip  from  the  south  have  found  difficulty  in 
procuring  a  kilometric  ticket  till  they  reached 
Seville  or  Granada;  this  confuses  the  traveler, 
and  makes  him  decide  the  ticket  is  too  compli- 
cated for  practical  use.  If  he  comes  to  visit 
merely  the  southern  province  of  Andalusia,  which 
is  what  most  people  see  of  Spain,  with  a  run  up 
to  Madrid  for  the  pictures,  then,  unless  several 
are  traveling  as  one  family,  there  is  little  gained 
by  the  carnet,  since  a  few  hundred  unused  miles 
are  sometimes  wasted.  But  for  the  complete 
tour  of  Spain  the  kilometric  ticket  is  the  most 
satisfactory  arrangement.  Besides  the  reduction 
it  makes  in  the  fare,  it  saves  the  confusion  of 
changing  money  in  the  stations.  You  go  to  the 


Introduction  3 

ticket  office  before  boarding  a  train,  have  the 
coupons  to  be  used  torn  off,  and  are  given  a  com- 
plementary ticket  to  hand  to  the  conductor  on  the 
train.  It  is  well  to  buy  the  official  railway  guide 
as  it  saves  asking  questions,  for  Spanish  trains, 
though  they  crawl  at  a  snail's  pace,  start  at  the 
hour  announced,  and  arrive  on  the  minute  set 
down  in  the  time-table. 

Thirty  kilos,  about  sixty-six  pounds,  are  al- 
lowed free  in  the  luggage  van,  but  for  an  exten- 
sive tour  it  is  better  to  send  trunks  ahead  by  some 
agency,  and  travel  with  only  the  valises  taken  with 
you  in  the  carriage.  These  the  mozo,  or  porter, 
carries  directly  from  the  train  to  the  hotel  omni- 
bus, which  —  another  good  custom  of  the  country 
—  is  always  in  waiting,  no  matter  at  what  hour 
the  arrival.  First  class  travel  in  Spain  is  about 
the  same  as  second  class  elsewhere ;  second  class  is 
like  third  class  in  France,  except  on  the  express 
route  from  Paris  to  Madrid,  and  in  Catalonia, 
where  second  class  is  comfortable. 

A  hasty  sketch  of  our  tour  may  help  later 
travelers.  We  entered  from  the  north,  by  Biar- 
ritz, a  far  better  way  of  seeing  the  country  in  its 
natural  sequence  than  the  usual  landing  at  Gi- 
braltar. One  feels  that  the  north  of  Spain,  in  the 
truest  degree  national,  untouched  by  the  Moor, 
has  never  had  justice  done  it.  If  a  transatlantic 
liner  touched  at  one  of  the  northern  ports,  such 


4  Heroic  Spain 

as  Vigo,  Santander,  Bilbao,  it  would  open  up  an 
untrodden  Switzerland  with  fertile  valleys  and 
noble  hills.  No  pleasanter  summer  tour,  on 
bicycle  or  afoot,  could  be  made  than  through  the 
Basque  provinces,  Asturias,  the  national  cradle 
of  Spain,  or  in  beautiful  Galicia  with  its  trout 
rivers.  In  summer  the  climate  is  cool  and  pleas- 
ant, and  the  most  isolated  valleys  are  so  safe  that 
any  two  women  could  travel  alone  with  security. 

Our  first  stop  was  at  Loyola  in  the  Basque 
country;  then  a  week  in  Burgos;  a  short  stay 
at  Valladolid  and  Palencia;  over  the  Asturian 
Mountains  to  Oviedo;  back  to  Leon  City,  and 
from  there  across  other  hills  to  Galicia,  seeing 
Lugo,  Coruna,  and  Santiago  in  that  province; 
from  Coruna  to  Santiago  by  diligence,  as  no  rail 
yet  connects  the  two  cities.  We  returned  to  Leon 
province  from  Galicia,  skirting  the  Mino  River 
which  divides  Spain  and  Portugal;  stopped  a 
night  at  Astorga,  some  days  in  Salamanca,  and 
made  a  short  pause  in  Zamora. 

Time  must  not  be  a  consideration  in  touring 
these  unfrequented  cities  of  middle  Spain,  for 
their  local  trains  are  few  and  far  between.  Only 
twice  a  week  is  there  direct  communication  be- 
tween Salamanca  and  Medina  del  Campo,  the 
junction  station  on  the  express  route.  But  if 
you  accept  once  for  all  the  slowness  of  the  trains, 
the  occasional  odd  hour  of  arrival  or  starting,  the 


Introduction  5 

inconvenience  of  a  distantly-set  station,  you  cease 
to  fret  and  scold  as  do  most  hurried  travelers. 
We  ended  by  finding  the  long  railway  journeys 
rather  restful  than  otherwise.  Usually  we  had 
the  Reservado  para  Senoras  carriage  to  ourselves, 
except  on  the  express  line  from  Paris  to  Madrid, 
and  we  soon  learned  how  to  make  ourselves  com- 
fortable for  a  whole  day's  journey,  seizing  the 
chance  of  taking  exercise  during  the  long  pauses 
in  the  stations,  and  enjoying  the  human-hearted 
scenes  there  witnessed;  for  a  Spaniard  greets 
and  bids  farewell  with  the  same  unconsciousness, 
the  same  absence  of  mauvaise  honte  as  when  he 
prays  or  makes  love. 

Also  I  found  the  topography  of  the  country 
of  endless  interest  during  the  long  train  trips; 
to  climb  up  to  the  great  truncated  mountain 
which  is  central  Spain,  to  see  how  the  still  higher 
ranges  of  mountains  crossed  it,  how  the  famous 
rivers  flowed,  the  setting  of  the  historic  cities,  — 
I  never  tired  of  looking  out  on  it  all.  Somehow 
I  have  got  tucked  away  a  distinct  picture  of 
Spain's  physical  geography,  no  doubt  due  to  the 
leisurely  railway  journeys,  which  are  not  so  slow 
that  the  proportion  of  the  whole  is  lost,  as  foot 
or  horse  travel  would  be,  nor  yet  so  fast  as  to 
jumble  the  picture,  as  with  the  express  trips  in 
some  countries. 

Spain  is  not  beautiful  like  Italy,  nor  of  the 


6  Heroic  Spain 

orderly  finished  type  of  England  or  France;  she 
has  few  of  Germany's  grand  forests.  There  is 
no  denying  she  is  a  gaunt,  denuded,  tragic  land; 
the  desolation  of  the  vast  high  steppes  of  Castile 
is  terrible.  Only  the  fringing  coasts  along  the 
Atlantic  and  the  Mediterranean  are  fertile. 
Nevertheless,  unbeautiful  as  is  the  landscape, 
it  possesses  an  unaccountable  magnificence  that 
grips  the  mind ;  we  never  took  a  night  trip  unless 
forced  to  it,  so  strangely  interesting  were  the 
hours  spent  in  looking  from  the  car  window. 

After  Salamanca  we  went  to  Segovia,  then 
across  the  Guadarramas  to  the  Escorial,  and 
slightly  back  north  by  the  same  mountains  to 
Avila.  Segovia  and  Avila  are  true  old  medi- 
aeval cities  of  the  inmost  heart  of  the  race, 
Espana  la  heroica  incarnate.  Again  passing 
through  the  hills,  whose  cold  blue  atmosphere 
Velasquez  has  made  immortally  real,  we  went  to 
Madrid.  From  there,  south,  we  struck  the  beaten 
tourist  track  with  pestering  guides  and  higher 
prices  in  the  hotels.  Up  to  this  we  had  driven, 
on  arrival  in  a  town,  to  the  first  or  second  hotel 
mentioned  in  Baedeker,  and  the  average  charge 
had  been  seven  pesetas  a  day,  all  included.  The 
provincial  hotels  gave  a  surprisingly  good  table; 
excellent  soups,  fresh  fish,  the  meats  fair,  and  all 
presented  in  a  savory  way;  the  fact  that  many 
men  of  the  town  use  the  hotel  as  a  restaurant  has 


Introduction  7 

much  to  do  with  the  generous  menu.  The  rooms 
were  cold  and  bare,  but  clean,  for  not  one  night 
of  distress  did  we  spend  during  the  eight  months' 
tour.  Of  course  certain  modern  comforts  were 
completely  lacking,  but  we  were  grateful  enough 
for  clean  beds  and  wholesome  food.  The  taking 
of  money  for  hospitality  is  thought  degrading 
by  this  chivalrous  people,  so  the  traveler  should 
not  judge  them  by  the  innkeeper  class  with  whom 
he  comes  in  contact.  I  found  courtesy  as  a  rule 
and  honesty  even  in  the  inns ;  having  valises  that 
could  not  lock,  I  yet  lost  nothing.  From  Toledo 
on,  we  began  to  go,  not  to  the  best  hotel  men- 
tioned in  the  guide  book,  for  that  now  had  an 
average  charge  of  twenty-five  francs  a  day,  but 
we  chose  some  minor  inn,  such  as  the  Fonda  da 
Lino,  in  Toledo,  once  the  first  hostelry  in  the  city 
before  the  "  Palace  "  variety  was  started  for  the 
American  tourist. 

We  had  spent  October  and  November  in  see- 
ing the  northern  provinces  whose  piercing  cold 
made  us  only  too  glad  to  settle  for  the  four  winter 
months  in  Andalusia;  a  day  at  Cordova,  a  fort- 
night in  Granada,  a  trip  to  Cadiz,  and  the  bulk 
of  the  time  in  Seville,  the  best  city  in  Spain  for 
a  prolonged  stay,  though  Barcelona  also  can 
offer  good  winter  quarters.  In  April  we  went 
north  into  Estremadura  to  see  the  Roman  re- 
mains, then  returned  to  Madrid  for  another  sight 


8  Heroic  Spain 

of  its  unrivaled  gallery,  and  also  because  all 
routes  focus  from  the  capital  like  the  spokes  of 
a  wheel.  We  continued  east  to  Guadalajara  and 
Sigiienza,  stopped  some  days  at  Saragossa,  then 
descended  by  Poblet  to  the  warm  fertile  coast 
again,  to  tropical  Tarragona  and  that  industrial 
anomaly  in  an  hidalgo  land,  Barcelona.  After 
spending  some  weeks  there,  in  the  beginning  of 
June  we  left  Spain  by  the  Port-Bou  frontier, 
stopping  at  Gerona  on  the  way  out. 

Thus  we  had  seen  some  twenty-five  Spanish 
cities  —  some  twenty-five  glorious  cathedrals!  — 
in  a  leisurely  journey  of  eight  months.  Any  spot 
along  the  southern  fringe  is  suitable  for  the  win- 
ter, any  spot  along  the  northern  coast  for  the  sum- 
mer, but  in  high  cold  middle- Spain  travel  for 
pleasure  must  be  limited  to  early  autumn  or  late 
spring  :  we  froze  to  death  in  Burgos  and  Sal- 
amanca during  October,  and  again  shivered  and 
chattered  with  the  April  cold  of  Guadalajara  and 
Sigiienza. 

As  to  guide  books,  Baedeker  is  as  good  as  any, 
though  the  Baedeker  for  Spain  is  not  equal  to 
that  firm's  guides  for  the  rest  of  Europe.  Mur- 
ray's "  Handbook  "  is  more  entertaining,  but  is 
rather  to  be  kept  as  amusing  literature  than  used 
as  a  guide  book,  much  of  it  being  the  personal 
opinions  and  prejudices  of  Richard  Ford,  and 
bristling  all  over  with  slurs  at  Spain's  religion. 


Introduction  9 

.  It  does  not  seem  reasonable  for  English-speaking 
travelers  to  see  this  original  country  through  the 
eyes- 'of  a  clever  but  crochety  Englishman  who 
wandered  over  it  on  horseback  eighty  years  ago  : 
we  should  not  like  a  European  to  judge  America 
by  Dickens'  notebook  dating  back  to  the  forties. 

There  are  two  bits  of  advice  I  would  give  to 
those  who  would  thoroughly  enjoy  traveling  in 
the  Peninsula.  Pick  up  as  soon  as  possible  some- 
thing of  the  tongue  or  you  miss  shadings  that 
give  depth  and  strength  to  the  impression.  If 
one  knows  Latin  or  French  or  Italian,  it  is  easy 
to  read  Spanish.  And  I  would  beg  every  un- 
hurried traveler  to  carry  in  his  pocket  the  "  Ro- 
mancero  del  Cid,"  Spain's  epic,  and  "Don 
Quixote,"  her  great  novel,  the  truest-hearted  book 
ever  written.  I  defy  a  man  to  while  away  a  winter 
in  Spain  with  el  ingemoso  hidalgo  his  daily  com- 
panion, or  sit  reading  the  "  Cid  "  above  the  Taj  us 
gorge  at  Toledo,  and  not  learn  to  love  this  virile, 
ascetic,  realistic,  exalted,  and  passionate  land, 
where  a  peasant  is  instinctively  a  gentleman, 
where  a  grandee  is  in  practice  a  democrat,  where 
certain  small  meanesses,  such  as  snobbishness, 
close-fisted  love  of  money,  are  unknown. 

The  second  advice  is  to  bring  to  Spain  some 
smattering  of  architectural  knowledge,  or  half  the 
charm  of  lingering  in  her  old  cities  is  lost,  —  also 
is  lessened  one's  chance  to  catch  unaware  the  soul 


io  Heroic  Spain 

of  this  mystic,  profoundly  religious  race.  Here 
I  should  end,  as  I  head  these  lines  of  introduc- 
tion with  the  words  :  Practical  hints.  And  yet, 
just  as  it  is  well  nigh  impossible  in  Spain  to  dis- 
sociate the  churches  themselves  from  the  reli- 
gious scenes  daily  witnessed  under  their  Roman- 
esque or  Gothic  arches,  so  I  cannot  help  begging 
the  traveler,  along  with  his  smattering  of  archi- 
tecture to  bring  a  little  liberality  toward  a  faith 
different  perhaps  from  his  own,  a  little  openness 
of  mind.  To  one  who  goes  to  Spain  in  the  holier- 
than-thou  attitude,  she  is  dumb  and  repellent, 
—  she  who  can  be  so  eloquent ! 

In  each  of  her  cities  is  a  cathedral  built  when 
faith  was  gloriously  generous  and  untamable, 
and  in  them  one  feels,  unless  blinded  by  prej- 
udices of  early  environment  or  birth,  that  here  in- 
deed man  is  bowed  in  the  humble  self-abasement 
of  worship,  here  is  not  only  aesthetic  beauty  but 
a  burning  soul;  the  incense,  the  lights,  the  in- 
herited lavish  wealth  speak  with  the  spirituality 
of  symbols,  of  ritual,  that  utterance  of  the  soul 
older  than  hymns  or  voiced  prayer. 

This  record  of  the  journey  through  Spain  will 
be  called  too  partial,  and  yet  I  started  without 
the  slightest  intention  of  liking  or  praising  her. 
A  month  before  going  to  Spain,  on  reading  in 
the  Bodleian  Library  certain  accounts  of  St. 
Teresa,  about  whom  I  had  but  vague  ideas,  I 


Introduction  1 1 

exclaimed  in  distress,  "What  a  morbid  mind!" 
I  went  far  from  sympathetic,  but  bit  by  bit  my 
prejudices  dropped  away.  With  the  cant  and 
smug  self-conceit  of  northern  superiority,  I  ex- 
pected among  other  jars  a  shock  to  my  religious 
belief.  And  after  eight  months  I  left  Spain 
with  the  conviction  that  magnificently  faulty 
though  she  is  with  her  bull-fights,  a  venal  govern- 
ment, and  city  loafers,  she  can  give  us  lessons  in 
mystic  spirituality,  in  an  unpretentious  charity, 
in  heroic  endurance,  in  a  very  practical  not  the- 
oretic democracy. 


1 2  Heroic    Spain 


ESPANA    LA    HEROICA 

Deep  learned  are  the  poor  in  many  ways, 
Their  hearts  are  mellowed  by  sweet  human  pain, 
And  she  has  learned  the  lesson  of  the  waifs, 
This  sadly-ravaged,  stern,  soul-moving  Spain! 

Rugged  and  wild,  wind-swept,  and  bleak,  and  drear, 

She  has  a  ruined  splendor  all  her  own, 

It  seizes  even  while  you  ask  in  fear 

The  reason  man  should  choose  this  waste  for  home. 

Her  cities  rise,  ascetic,  lofty,  proud, 
Forever  haunted  by  high  souls  that  dare, 
And  from  her  wondrous  churches  rings  aloud 
A  heaven-storming  radiance  of  prayer; 

With  psalm,  with  dance,  with  ecstasy's  white  thrill, 
Her  mystics  dared  to  lose  themselves  in  God, 
Theirs  was  unflinching  faith,  fierce,  varonil, 
A  force  as  true  to  nature  as  the  sod. 

Reward  must  come:   perhaps  from  her  to-day 
May  spring  the  needed  saint,  to  think,  to  feel, 
To  grope  triumphantly,  to  point  the  way 
To  altars  where  both  Faith  and  Science  kneel. 

Upon  her  ashy  mountain  height  she  stands, 
Eager  to  step  into  the  forward  strife, 
Her  eyes  are  wide  with  hope,  outstretched  her  hands 
To  meet  the  promise  of  new  coursing  life : 

Steadfast  her  cities  to  the  desert  face, 
Snow  mountains  loom  across  the  silent  plain : 
Take  courage,  O  exalted  tragic  race ! 
Courage!    Christ's  always  faithful  grand  old  Spain! 
Castile,  1908. 


IN  THE  BASQUE  COUNTRY: 
LOYOLA 

"  The  only  happy  people  in  the  world  are  the  good 
man,  the  sage,  and  the  saint;  but  the  saint  is  happier 
than  either  of  the  others,  so  much  is  man  by  his  nature 
formed  for  sanctity."  —  JOUBEET. 

"  Whoever  has  been  in  the  land  of  the  Basques  wishes 
to  return  to  it ;  it  is  a  blessed  land."  —  VICTOE  HUGO. 

THE  Basque  is  still  one  of  the  sturdy  untouched 
peoples  of  the  earth;  they  make  still  the  unmixed 
aborigines  of  Spain.  Their  difficult  dialect  re- 
mains a  perplexity  to  the  etymologist,  some  be- 
lieve it  to  be  of  Tartar  origin.  They  themselves 
claim  to  be  the  oldest  race  in  Europe  and  that 
their  language  came  to  Spain  before  the  confusion 
of  tongues  at  Babel.  They  derive  their  name 
from  a  Basque  phrase  meaning  '  We  are 
enough,"  that  fittingly  describes  their  character  of 
self-sufficiency;  the  mere  fact  of  being  born  in  the 
province  confers  nobility.  Life  for  centuries  in 
the  isolated  valleys  that  never  were  conquered  by 
Moor  or  foreign  invader  has  bred  in  the  Basque 
a  passionate  independence.  He  would  never  join 
with  the  neighboring  kingdoms  of  Navarre  and 


14  Heroic  Spain 

Leon  until  his  special  privileges  were  ratified; 
and  though  these  privileges  were  the  important 
ones  of  exemption  from  taxes  and  military  service, 
he  succeeded  in  keeping  them  intact  until  his 
sympathies  with  the  Pretenders  in  the  Carlist 
wars  lost  him  his  ancient  rights.  To-day  the 
Basques  must  pay  taxes  and  serve  in  the  army 
like  the  rest  of  Spain,  but  their  soldiers  are  usually 
employed  in  the  customs,  or  as  aids  to  the  local 
police.  Their  red  cap,  like  the  French  beret,  and 
brilliant  red  trousers  are  a  familiar  sight  among 
the  valleys. 

Of  the  three  Basque  provinces  with  their 
600,000  people,  the  smallest,  Guipuzcoa,  is  a  good 
epitome  of  national  characteristics.  The  sin- 
uous valleys  now  serve  as  the  passageway  for 
the  rushing  mountain  river,  now  spread  out  into 
a  plain  where  the  villages  are  set.  Each  town  has 
its  shady  alameda,  its  plaza,  and  a  court  for  play- 
ing pelota,  a  kind  of  tennis,  the  game  of  the  prov- 
ince. There  are  frequent  casas  solares?  or  family 
manor  houses;  one  of  these  I  remember  wedged 
in  with  its  neighbors,  in  Azcoitia,  unnoticed  by  the 
guide  book,  only  by  chance  we  looked  up  and 
found  it  looming  above  the  narrow  pavement; 
blackened  with  age  and  scarred  as  if  crashed  with 
blows  of  warring  times,  it  was  a  speaking  record 
of  old  Basque  life.  In  any  other  country  but 

1  From  the  Latin  word  solum,  ground, 


In  the  Basque  Country:  Loyola    15 

Spain,  the  carelessly  rich  and  unrecorded,  such  a 
fortress-house  would  be  a  lion  in  the  district,  - 
from  this  very  unexpectedness  Spanish  travel  is 
of  unflagging  charm.  The  strong  primitive 
Guipiizcoans  cling  to  their  patriarchal  customs. 
The  men  and  boys  sit  before  their  doors  making 
the  cord  soles  used  in  peasants'  shoes ;  the  women 
in  groups  of  twenty  or  more,  wash  clothes  in  the 
public  trough  or  down  by  the  river.  The  indus- 
try of  all  is  unflagging.  The  roads  are  among  the 
best  built  in  Spain,  along  them  go  creaking  carts, 
each  wheel  made  of  a  solid  block  of  wood  bound 
in  iron  and  emitting  a  prolonged  agonizing 
squeak.  The  cream-colored  oxen  that  drag  them 
have  their  yokes  covered  with  sheepskin,  another 
century-old  custom.  The  carts  sometimes  carry 
pigskins  filled  with  wine,  three  legs  in  the  air, 
and  the  unique  casks  are  mended  with  a  kind 
of  pitch  that  lends  a  disagreeable  flavor  to  the 
wine,  but  these  Highlanders  will  not  yield  an  old 
usage. 

No  sooner  did  we  cross  the  Puente  Inter- 
national that  connects  France  with  its  neighbors 
over  the  Bidassoa  River  —  scene  of  historic  meet- 
ings —  than  we  found  ourselves  in  the  wooded 
Basque  provinces  of  the  northern  Pyrenees. 
The  country  was  fertile,  the  small  farms  culti- 
vated with  activity;  on  the  hills  were  heavily- 
laden  chestnut  trees,  in  the  valleys,  orchards :  we 


1 6  Heroic  Spain 

often  passed  trainloads  of  red  apples  carried  un- 
packed in  the  open  cars  like  coal.  Not  far  from 
the  frontier  the  train  skirted  what  appeared  to 
be  an  inland  lake  surrounded  by  hills,  when  sud- 
denly I  noticed  an  ocean  steamer  and  some  fish- 
ing smacks  lying  at  anchor,  and  looking  closer 
I  saw  that  a  narrow  passage  led  through  the  hills 
to  the  ocean  breaking  outside,  —  another  of 
Spain's  unheralded  effects.  This  was  the  beau- 
tiful inland  Bay  of  Pasajes,  the  port  from  which 
young  Lafayette  sailed  for  America. 

At  San  Sebastian,  the  most  fashionable  sum- 
mer resort  in  Spain,  and  still  gay  with  Madrid 
people,  for  the  season  holds  till  October,  we  saw 
the  first  bull-ring,  a  circular  building  of  red  and 
yellow  brick  in  the  Moorish  style.  To  find  a 
plaza  de  toros  here  in  the  north  was  disconcert- 
ing. Spain's  national  game  has  withstood  the 
will  of  kings,  Papal  bulls,  the  dislike  of  a  large 
proportion  of  the  Spanish  people  who  peti- 
tioned the  Cortes  in  1878  for  its  abolishment,  and 
the  odium  of  foreign  races.  Until  this  debased 
cosa  de  Espana  is  done  away  with  it  will  remain 
a  stumbling  block  to  even  the  most  sympathetic 
of  travelers. 

At  Iriin,  the  frontier  town  behind  us,  we  had 
taken  our  tickets  for  Zumarraga,  two  hours  away. 
There  we  were  to  leave  the  railway  and  drive 
into  the  valleys  to  Loyola,  where  in  an  old  castle 


In  the  Basque  Country:   Loyola   17 

the  hidalgo  Vizcaino,  Don  Inigo  de  Loyola,  was 
born.  Our  guide  book  gave  but  the  slightest  in- 
formation. It  was  raining  drearily.  With  trep- 
idation and  sinking  hearts  we  looked  out  at 
Zumarraga  as  the  train  drew  near.  Would  this, 
the  first  night  in  Spain,  cold  and  wet,  be  spent 
in  some  miserable  tavern  in  a  town  of  a  thousand 
inhabitants,  and  perhaps  the  next  morning 
would  a  rickety  diligence  take  us  up  the  valley? 
We  stepped  from  the  train  reluctantly ;  at  the  last 
minute  we  were  tempted  to  turn  back.  But  a  por- 
ter had  seized  our  valises,  and  muttering  some- 
thing incomprehensible  about  Loyola  and  an  au- 
tomobile hurried  us  through  the  station.  And 
there,  beyond,  stood  the  wonderful  thing,  sign 
manual  of  modern  comfort  —  a  great  red  auto- 
mobile with  a  gallant  chauffeur !  We  sat  down  on 
our  luggage  and  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh.  It 
began  to  dawn  on  us  that  perhaps  the  tour  of 
Spain  was  not  going  to  be  the  series  of  hardships 
and  privations  we  anticipated. 

For  the  sum  of  three  pesetas  each  (fifty- four 
cents)  we  were  whirled  up  the  winding  valley. 
The  mountains  rose  precipitously  from  the  road 
and  its  accompanying  river,  reminding  me  of  the 
valley  in  the  Pistoiese  Apennines  that  leads  down 
to  the  Bagni  di  Lucca.  In  the  motor  diligence 
with  us  were  a  few  courteous  Basques;  an  el- 
derly architect,  with  the  finely-chiseled  features 


1 8  Heroic  Spain 

of  the  country,  pointed  out  a  sight  here  and  there, 
among  others  the  birthplace  and  statue  of  Le- 
gazpi,  conqueror  of  the  Philippines.  I  think 
he  took  us  for  countrywomen  of  his  young  queen, 
and,  trying  to  emulate  his  politeness,  we  were  si- 
lent as  to  our  nationality ;  later  we  discovered  that 
this  was  quite  unnecessary,  for  there  is  not  the 
slightest  prejudice  in  Spain  against  the  United 
States.  We  passed  a  building  by  the  river  and 
were  told  it  was  an  electric  power-house;  al- 
most every  part  of  the  country  is  now  lighted  by 
electricity.  *  You  are  very  up-to-date !  "  we  ex- 
claimed. He  replied  by  a  shrug  of  delighted  self- 
depreciation,  a  proud  smile  of  conscious  superi- 
ority aping  the  humble,  not  out  of  place  in  a 
Basque  whose  mysterious  language  Adam  spoke, 
so  ancient  and  difficult  a  tongue  that  the  devil 
who  once  tried  to  learn  it,  they  say,  had  to  give 
up  in  despair.  Our  opposite  neighbors  in  the  dil- 
igence, countrymen  whose  loss  of  teeth  made 
them  appear  aged,  sought  also  to  show  some 
courtesy.  Each  wayside  shrine  was  named  with 
glistening  eyes,  —  St.  Anthony;  the  hermitage 
on  the  hill  above,  St.  Augustine;  here,  St.  John. 
One  began  to  understand  religion  was  no  mere 
Sunday  morning  service  with  this  people. 

After  six  miles  the  valley  opened  out  and  we 
came  to  Azcoitia,  a  town  of  some  five  thousand 
inhabitants  where  is  manufactured  the  boina,  the 


In  the  Basque  Country:  Loyola    19 

typical  cap  of  the  province.  The  automobile 
went  slowly  through  the  narrow  cobbled  streets, 
under  the  high  houses  and  the  cliff-like  church, 
then  sped  over  two  miles  of  a  beautiful  valley, 
with  mountain  rising  behind  mountain  in  the  even- 
ing light,  and  at  length  we  reached  Loyola. 

Here  one  of  the  great  discoverers  of  new 
strength,  of  untried  powers  in  the  human  soul, 
one  of  the  holiest  men  of  Christendom,  saw  the 
light  in  1491,  the  year  before  the  discovery  of 
America:  in  the  life  of  St.  Ignatius  are  several 
coincidental  dates  to  give  us  pause.  Surely  it 
was  to  these  peaceful  Basque  hills  that  his 
thoughts  turned  when,  a  knight  in  the  worldly 
court  that  surrounded  Ferdinand  and  his  second 
wife  Germaine  de  Foix,  Ignatius  in  gazing  at 
the  stars  would  feel  with  sudden  potency  the  petti- 
ness of  man's  grandeur,  and  during  his  religious 
life,  when  he  craved  at  the  sunset  hour  to  be  alone 
to  meditate,  he  must  have  recalled  this  lovely 
valley  of  his  birth.  With  emotion  I  saw  in  the 
distance  the  huge  quadrangle  of  the  convent  that 
now  surrounds  the  Santa  Casa:  the  thought 
of  what  this  spot  has  given  to  the  world,  of  the 
thousands  of  chosen  souls  linked  to-day  by  one 
will  to  work  for  good  in  every  land,  can  well  make 
Loyola  a  place  to  stir  the  heart. 

At  a  little  past  six  we  left  the  automobile  which 
was  to  run  farther  up  the  valley,  and  a  porter 


2o  Heroic  Spain 

from  the  inn  led  us  through  the  park  the  Jesuits 
have  planted  for  the  people.  The  Hospederia 
de  Loyola  was  a  large  building  with  a  porti- 
coed  entrance  at  right  angles  to  the  convent, 
more  like  a  monastery  than  a  hotel,  with  polished 
staircase  and  corridors,  neat  bare  rooms,  and  a 
long  white  refectory.  The  table  was  excellent, 
one  course  followed  another  at  the  one  o'clock 
luncheon  and  the  eight  o'clock  dinner.  There 
was  fresh  fish  from  San  Sebastian  (to  which  daily 
another  motor  diligence  ran),  there  were  home- 
made preserves,  and  we  had  our  first  taste  of  the 
universal  garbanzos1  of  Spain,  a  chickpea  shaped 
like  a  ram's  head.  The  waitress,  the  first  of  many 
Carmens  and  Dolores,  was  a  wonderful  old  wo- 
man who  grew  so  intent  on  teaching  us  her  lan- 
guage that  she  would  insistently  repeat  the  name 
of  each  dish  she  passed.  She  managed  to  convey 
to  us  by  pantomime,  for  our  Spanish  as  yet  was 
of  the  meagerest,  that  there  were  eight  ladies  from 
Madrid  in  the  hotel,  living  upstairs  in  retirement 
as  they  were  making  a  Retreat.  They  had 
come  last  Saturday;  —  talk,  talk,  talk,  —  and  the 
animated  little  woman  gesticulated  to  show. 
Then  the  Retreat  began,  —  did  we  know  what 
"the  Exercises"  were?  Off  she  walked  with 
bowed  head  and  downcast  eyes.  So  it  would  be 

1  "C'est  un  pois  qui  a  1'ambition  d'etre  un  haricot  et  qui  reussit 
trop  bien."     THEOPHILE  GAUTIEB  "Voyage  en  Espagne," 


In  the  Basque  Country:  Loyola    2  i 

all  week.  The  next  Monday  we  should  see 
them,  they  would  come  to  table  with  us,  and  it 
would  be  talk,  talk,  talk  again.  During  the  week 
we  occasionally  saw  a  lady  in  black,  her  head  cov- 
ered with  a  veil,  cross  from  the  hotel  to  the  Santa 
Casa  where  the  meditations  were  held.  In  the 
convent  the  Jesuits  were  conducting  another 
Retreat  attended  by  fifty  men  from  different 
Spanish  cities:  these  lived  in  the  seminary  with 
the  priests. 

At  table  with  us  were  some  Spanish  people  of 
a  kind  the  tourist  does  not  usually  meet.  One  of 
them,  a  deeply  religious  man  from  Barcelona,  on 
his  first  visit  to  the  Santa  Casa,  following  the 
example  of  St.  Francis  Borgia,  knelt  to  kiss 
the  floor  of  the  room  in  which  the  patron  of  the 
Basques  was  born.  Another,  an  elderly  woman 
fond  of  lace  and  jewels,  and  probably  longing 
for  the  gayeties  of  San  Sebastian,  was  waiting 
in  this  quiet  spot  while  her  daughter  made  the 
Retreat.  When  the  eight  days  were  ended  we 
met  this  daughter,  a  beautiful  girl  with  the 
charm  of  manner  and  quickness  of  intelligence 
that  we  found  as  a  rule  among  Spanish  women. 
The  afternoon  the  two  Retreats  closed  was  a 
pleasant  sight.  The  valley  was  fragrant  from 
the  rain,  on  the  mountains  the  chalets  stood  out 
strangely  near  in  the  clear  air.  Carriages  and 
touring-cars  rolled  up,  pretty  wives  to  fetch  their 


22  Heroic  Spain 

husbands,  husbands  to  claim  their  wives.  All 
were  happy  and  natural,  but  one  felt  around  one 
the  atmosphere  of  the  higher  things  of  life,  an  ex- 
altation that  only  religion  can  give.  Religion  is 
ineradioably  woven  into  the  every-day  life  of  this 
race:  a  Spaniard  is  half  mystic  by  inheritance. 
The  power  to  understand  the  spiritual  is  not  the 
gift  of  a  few  but  of  all.  It  gives  to  the  peasant 
woman,  to  the  uncouth  lad  serving  Mass,  an  in- 
telligence above  themselves.1  Before  the  late  din- 
ner that  last  evening  in  Loyola,  a  tall  Spanish 
woman  with  her  four  daughters  automobiled  over 
from  San  Sebastian;  she  came  to  join  her  hus- 
band who  had  been  following  the  "  Exercises." 
He  now  sat  with  us  at  table,  a  man  of  the  grave 
dignity  and  fine  presence  we  were  later  to  meet 
frequently.  That  night  when  passing  through 
the  corridors  we  heard  the  sounds  of  prayer  in 
their  rooms,  the  wife  and  children  making  the 
responses  to  the  man's  deeper  voice. 

The  convent  of  Loyola  is  the  center  of  civi- 
lization for  the  countryside.  All  day  there  is 
a  ceaseless  come  and  go  to  the  church,  or  to  the 

1  "Las  inteligencias  mas  humildas  comprenden  las  ideas  mas 
elevadas;  y  los  que  economizan  la  verdad  y  la  publican  solo  cuando 
estan  seguros  de  ser  comprendidos  viven  en  grandisimo  error,  por- 
que  la  verdad,  aunque  no  sea  comprendida,  ejerce  misteriosas  influen- 
cias  y  conduce  por  caminos  ocultos  a  las  sublimidades  mas  puras, 
alas  que  brotan  incomprensibles  y  espontaneas  de  las  almas  vulga- 
res." 

Angel  Ganivet:  "  Idearium  Espafiol." 


In  the  Basque  Country:  Loyola    23 

Santa  Casa  for  silent  prayer.  At  one  each  day 
troops  of  children  go  to  the  door  of  the  convent 
with  baskets  and  tins,  and  food  is  given  them  to 
carry  to  the  aged  and  decrepit  of  the  town.  An 
hour  later  some  dozens  of  lads  in  blue  smock  and 
boina,  playing  their  ceaseless  pelota,  flock  into  the 
building  for  a  half  hour  of  doctrina.  Then  at 
three  the  young  novices  come  out  gayly  for  their 
ramble  over  the  mountains  and  as  they  pass  be- 
fore the  church  each  instantly  removes  his  hat  as 
walking  they  repeat  together  a  prayer.  Happy 
those  whose  formative  years  are  passed  in  hardy 
discipline  among  these  uncontaminated  Basque 
hills!  The  peasants  of  the  valley,  when  the  bell 
sounds  the  hours,  pause  to  remove  their  caps  in 
salutation.  Every  morning  they  cross  the  fields 
from  Azpeitia  on  the  raised  path  beside  the  river, 
or  they  come  from  Azcoitia,  two  miles  down  the 
valley,  to  attend  the  morning  services.  No  one 
who  has  not  seen  a  Spanish  priest's  attitude  of 
devotion  can  understand  its  appealing  beauty. 
These  Jesuits  and  their  attendant  young  novices 
(there  are  about  two  hundred  students  in  the  sem- 
inary) approach  the  altar  with  solemn  reverence, 
without  a  trace  of  self-consciousness,  and  slowly 
and  beautifully  say  the  Mass.  c  The  Jesuit 
seems  to  love  God  from  pure  inclination,  out  of 
admiration,  gratitude,  tenderness,  for  the  pleas- 
ure of  loving  Him,"  wrote  that  subtle  critic, 


24  Heroic  Spain 

Joubert:  "In  their  books  of  devotion  you  find 
joy  because  with  them  nature  and  religion  go 
hand  in  hand."  A  Basque  congregation  is 
worthy  of  such  ministers.  All  kneel  without 
bench  or  chair,  the  men  on  folded  handerchiefs, 
the  women  on  the  circular  straw  mats  scattered 
over  the  pavement.  We  were  fortunate  enough 
to  attend  a  late  Benediction,  not  a  customary 
service  in  Spain  as  we  found  later.  The  thrilled 
exaltation  of  the  singing  in  which  all  joined,  the 
aged  as  well  as  children,  is  impossible  to  describe. 
It  was  a  triumphant  full-hearted  adoration  trying 
to  voice  the  inexpressible;  the  organ  ran  riot, 
strained  to  its  utmost,  to  accompany  the  ecstatic 
singing. 

Every  Sunday  the  peasants  drive  in  from  the 
mountains  to  attend  the  afternoon  service,  and 
after  it  they  stand  to  chat  for  a  placid  hour  on 
the  wide  steps  of  the  church.  Arm  in  arm  the 
young  girls  stroll  up  and  down  in  the  park  be- 
fore the  convent.  I  looked  on  at  this  scene  of  con- 
tentment that  told  of  frugal,  upright  living,  with 
the  sad  thought  of  France  deprived  of  such 
wholesome  beauty,  of  the  peasants  round  the 
Grande-Chartreuse,  poverty-stricken  and  deso- 
late since  the  industrial  monastery  was  closed. 
Happily  for  the  future  of  Spain,  she  has  at  hand 
a  neighbor  to  give  her  the  lesson  in  time. 

The  convent  of  Loyola  was  built  by  the  Aus- 


In  the  Basque  Country:  Loyola    25 

trian  wife  of  Philip  IV  to  enclose  and  preserve 
the  Santa  Casa,  and  it  was  by  her  presented  to 
the  Jesuits.  The  church  whose  dome  overtops 
the  convent  is  in  imitation  of  the  Pantheon.  Un- 
fortunately, as  are  most  Jesuit  churches  in 
Europe,  it  was  erected  in  a  bad  period,  and  over- 
loaded with  ornament.  The  Company  of  Jesus 
was  not  founded  until  the  golden  age  of  archi- 
tecture was  well  past;  Churriguera,  archmaster 
of  bad  taste,  was  in  vogue  when  they  built.  But 
at  Loyola  if  the  twisted  pillars  of  decorated 
marble  are  hideous,  the  ample  flowing  staircase 
that  leads  to  the  church  is  a  beautiful  feature, 
reminiscent  of  Italian  villas. 

The  soul  of  the  valley  is  naturally  the  Santa 
Casa  itself,  the  casa  solar  of  the  saint's  fore- 
fathers. The  lower  story  is  of  rough-hewn  stone, 
and  once  the  whole  building  was  the  same,  but 
a  jealous  king  leveled  the  fortress-houses  of  the 
Basque  nobles  and  the  upper  stories  were  rebuilt 
in  ancient  brick.  Above  the  entrance  door  the 
arms  of  the  family  are  carved,  two  wolves  and 
a  pot.  The  tradition  is  that  the  knights  of  Loyola 
were  so  generous  to  their  retainers  that  even  the 
wolves  came  to  share  their  hospitality.  In  many 
of  the  rooms  daily  Masses  are  said;  the  four 
stories  have  been  inlaid  with  mosaic,  carved  wood, 
and  gold  leaf,  the  gifts  of  devotees  of  the  Basque 
patron.  One  room  is  pointed  out  as  the  saint's 


26  Heroic  Spain 

before  his  conversion,  another  as  the  one  in  which 
St.  Francis  Borgia  said  his  first  Mass,  giving  up 
a  brilliant  career,  as  viceroy,  admiral,  Duke  of 
Gandia  by  inheritance,  favorite  of  Charles  V, 
to  consecrate  himself  to  the  service  of  the  altar. 
At  this  memorable  Mass  he  gave  communion  to 
one  of  his  sons,  married  to  an  inheritor  of  the 
Santa  Casa,  a  niece  of  St.  Ignatius.  So  many 
were  the  communicants  another  day  that  the 
Mass  lasted  from  nine  to  three.  Such  rare  in- 
stances of  Christian  perfection  make  the  ancient 
house  a  chosen  spot. 

The  story  of  St.  Ignatius'  life  is  told  through- 
out his  casa  solar.  On  the  staircase  is  a  window 
showing  him  as  a  courtier.  He  was  skilled  in 
knightly  exercises,  fond  of  the  saddle  and  equally 
fond  of  rich  attire:  good-looking,  high-spirited, 
truthful,  and  brave,  he  was  a  favorite  with  his 
soldiers.  The  scene  of  his  wounding  at  the  siege 
of  Pamplona  is  given;  he  lies  on  the  ground  with 
his  leg  shattered.  A  long  year  of  convalescence 
followed,  and  we  see  him  reading  the  books  that 
wrought  his  marvelous  change  of  heart.  He 
sought  the  monastery  of  Montserrat,  above  Bar- 
celona, to  beg  counsel  of  a  learned  man  con- 
cerning the  vocation  he  felt  within  him.  His 
military  training  made  him  dream  of  forming  a 
spiritual  knighthood  to  battle  for  the  salvation  of 
souls:  "  Company  of  Jesus  "  is  a  military  term. 


In  the  Basque  Country:  Loyola    27 

At  Montserrat  he  performed  the  vigil  of  the  ar- 
mor, like  a  true  knight  watching  till  dawn  before 
the  altar;  then  exchanging  his  fine  robes  with  a 
beggar  he  went  forth,  "  el  pobre  ignoto  peregrin." 
In  a  cave  of  Manresa  he  lived  in  seclusion  and 
prayer,  verifying  on  himself  in  agony  of  spirit 
the  knowledge  which  was  later  to  guide  the 
troubled  souls  of  others  who  sought  light.  "  His 
experience  in  this  solitude  was  ~an  epitome  of  the 
psychology  of  the  saints;  and  it  smote  him  all 
the  more  intimately  because  he  was  utterly  with- 
out foreknowledge  of  the  spiritual  life,  and 
fought  out  his  fight  alone,  like  the  first  Fathers 
of  the  Desert."  In  the  cave  of  Manresa  was 
forged  his  Excalibur  (to  use  again  the  vivid 
phrase  of  Francis  Thompson,  own  brother  to 
Crashaw  in  his  flashes  of  celestial  intuition) ,  there 
originated  the  "  Spiritual  Exercises,"  the  work 
used  to-day  in  the  Retreats.  "  It  has  converted 
more  souls  to  God,"  wrote  St.  Francis  de  Sales, 
"  than  it  contains  letters." 

Eighteen  years  were  to  pass  before  St.  Igna- 
tius founded  his  Order.  They  were  years  filled 
with  wanderings  in  Spain  and  Europe,  a  student 
at  universities,  a  humble  but  joyous  pilgrim  to 
Jerusalem.  One  day  while  he  was  reading  the 
eighteenth  chapter  of  St.  Luke  the  words,  "  And 
they  understood  none  of  these  things  "  brought 
before  him  with  sudden  force  the  realization  of 


28  Heroic  Spain 

his  own  untrained  mind,  the  fact  that  he  must  be 
educated  himself  before  he  could  help  others. 
So  at  thirty  this  remarkable  man  began  his  scho- 
lastic studies  in  Barcelona,  in  Cardinal  Ximenez's 
famous  university  of  Alcala,  in  Salamanca. 
One  day,  in  the  streets  of  Alcala,  as  he  was  led 
to  prison  on  a  false  accusation,  the  proud  young 
grandee  of  Gandia  passed  him.  This  was  the  first 
sight  Francis  Borgia  had  of  the  man  who  later 
was  to  lead  his  life.  Then  followed  some  years  of 
study  in  Paris.  1530  found  him  in  London  at 
the  time  of  the  agitation  of  Henry  VII I's  di- 
vorce from  Catherine  of  Aragon,  again  a  coin- 
cidence in  Ignatius'  life  that  he  should  visit  at 
this  critical  moment  the  land  soon  to  desert  a 
church  for  which  he  was  destined  to  raise  so 
powerful  a  defense.  There  was  another  notable 
Spaniard  in  England  then,  not  a  humble  summer 
student  begging  his  way  like  the  Basque  hidalgo, 
but  a  scholar  of  Corpus  Christi  College,  distin- 
guished and  lauded,  to  attend  whose  lectures  the 
King  and  Queen  used  sometimes  to  spend  a  few 
days  in  Oxford.  This  was  Juan  Luis  de  Vives, 
born  in  the  great  year  1492,  the  precursor  of 
Bacon  and  Descartes,  a  man  of  such  vast  erudi- 
tion and  impartial  judgment  that  he  has  been 
called  with  Erasmus  and  the  French  prodigy, 
Bude,  the  intellect  of  his  century.  Vives  stood 
forth  courageously  as  defender  of  his  country- 


In  the  Basque  Country:  Loyola    29 

woman  when  the  divorce  question  arose;  he  was 
imprisoned  for  a  short  time,  forfeited  his  posi- 
tion and  pension,  and  finally  left  England 
altogether. 

Loyola  now  took  his  degree  as  Master  of  Arts 
in  Paris,  and  gathering  round  him  some  young 
men  of  earnest  life  —  among  them  the  future 
apostle  and  martyr  in  the  East,  St.  Francis 
Xavier  from  Navarre  —  the  memorable  band  of 
seven  students  made  the  vows  of  poverty  and 
chastity  in  the  crypt  of  a  church  on  Montmartre 
on  the  Feast  of  the  Assumption,  1534.  Thirty 
years  later  the  remembrance  of  that  hour  made 
one  of  the  seven,  Rodriguez,  feel  his  heart  swell 
with  ineffable  consolation.  Literally  these  ardent 
souls  fulfilled  the  letter  of  the  Gospel  for  the  way 
of  perfection :  "  If  thou  wilt  be  perfect  go  sell 
what  thou  hast,  and  give  to  the  poor/'  "  If  any 
man  will  come  after  me  let  him  deny  himself,  and 
take  up  his  cross  and  follow  me."  '  Ye  shall  be 
hated  of  all  men  for  my  name's  sake."  Their 
founder  with  superhuman  perspicacity  prayed  it 
might  be  so.  The  world's  hate  is  their  alembic 
of  purification. 

Ignatius  returned  to  Spain  to  arrange  with 
Xavier's  family  —  he  also  was  of  the  northern 
mountain  race  of  Spain  —  and  with  the  kindred 
of  three  others  of  his  followers.  He  crossed  the 
Pyrenees  by  footpaths,  and  descending  to  his  own 


30  Heroic  Spain 

valley  of  Loyola  preached  down  by  the  river  in 
Azpeitia.  Later  in  Italy  the  band  of  Mont- 
martre  met  again,  working  in  hospitals,  preach- 
ing, and  converting  souls  to  God.  It  was  in 
Venice,  many  years  after  his  wounding  at  Pam- 
plona, that  Ignatius  Loyola  was  at  length 
ordained  priest,  and  in  Rome,  in  the  church  of 
Santa  Maria  Maggiore  said  his  first  Mass. 
When  the  projects  of  the  small  band  were  sub- 
mitted to  the  Pope,  he  had  the  inspired  wisdom 
to  discern  in  humble  beginnings  a  future  great 
movement  and  exclaimed:  "  Digitus  Dei  est 
hie!"  —  truly  the  finger  of  God.  The  new 
Order  approved,  Loyola  was  elected  its  general; 
like  a  military  company,  the  first  law  was  the 
unhesitating  obedience  of  the  soldier  to  his 
leader,  the  unbreakable  power  that  lies  in  many 
working  as  one.  The  Compania  spread  over  the 
world,  reforming  monasteries,  giving  help  to  the 
poor,  persuading  the  rich  to  purer  lives,  recon- 
ciling husbands  and  wives.  Within  a  few  years 
Francis  Borgia  gave  up  his  dukedom  to  join 
them,  and  his  accession  brought  to  the  Order 
many  Spaniards  of  high  rank.  The  founder 
continued  to  live  in  Italy  between  Rome  at  the 
Gesu  and  Tivoli:  he  died  in  Rome  in  1556. 

In  the  Santa  Casa  we  followed  this  remark- 
able life  in  scene  after  scene.  There  is  a  touching 
picture  of  the  grown  man  at  school  among  lads 


In  the  Basque  Country:  Loyola    3  i 

half  his  age,  of  the  crypt  of  Montmartre,  and 
of  the  final  scene  in  Rome.  His  face  was  said 
by  St.  Philip  Neri  to  have  shone  with  compelling 
personality.  In  speech  he  was  grave  and  admir- 
able, a  never-tiring  student  of  the  Bible;  that, 
and  the  "  Imitation  of  Christ "  were  the  only 
books  he  much  valued.  "  To  see  Father  Igna- 
tius was  like  reading  a  chapter  of  the  '  Imita- 
tion,' "  they  used  to  say  of  him. 

We  lingered  for  some  days  in  the  beautiful 
Basque  valley,  following  the  winding  paths 
among  the  mountains,  loitering  in  the  two  little 
towns  near  by  in  the  pleasant  discovery  of  rare 
old  windows  and  portals.  Most  of  the  houses 
had  a  picture  of  the  Saviour  on  the  entrance  door. 
Each  new-born  child  is  brought  to  the  parish 
church  of  Azpeitia  where  St.  Ignatius  was  bap- 
tized, and  each  boy  is  called  by  his  name,  though 
only  the  eldest  in  a  family  has  the  privilege  of 
using  it.  The  saint's  hymn  is  the  national  hymn 
of  the  Basques. 

It  was  a  raw  autumn  morning  when  we  left 
Loyola.  The  light  was  just  filling  the  valleys  as 
we  passed  the  sweeping  steps  of  the  church  up 
which  the  peasants  were  mounting  to  beg  a  bless- 
ing on  their  working  hours.  The  influence  of 
their  loved  patron  is  as  vivid  as  if  he  had  lived 
but  yesterday,  so  truly  can  one  human  mind, 
touched  by  divine  grace,  with  no  thought  of  self, 


32  Heroic  Spain 

in  sublime  earnestness,  rouse  mankind  to  shake 
off  its  apathy,  to  aspire  to  the  highest.  If  only 
another  such  knight  might  arise  to-day  to  fight 
the  modern  battle  of  Christianity! 


BURGOS    AND    THE    CID 

"  The  epochs  in  which  faith  prevails  are  the  marked 
epochs  of  human  history,  full  of  heart-stirring  memories 
and  of  substantial  gains  for  all  after  times.  The  epochs 
in  which  unbelief  prevails,  even  when  for  the  moment 
they  put  on  the  semblance  of  glory  and  success,  inevit- 
ably sink  into  insignificance  in  the  eyes  of  posterity 
which  will  not  waste  its  thoughts  on  things  barren  and 
unfruitful."  —  GOETHE. 

PASSING  through  the  fertile  Basque  valleys,  the 
train  mounts  the  Pyrenees  by  a  series  of  skill- 
fully-engineered tunnels.  This  natural  barrier 
between  France  and  Spain,  is  far  from  being  the 
straight  rampart  of  school  geographies.  It  is 
a  wide  expanse  of  ramifying  hills  and  intricate 
valleys,  a  jumble  of  mountains  that  explains  why 
Spain  remained  isolated  from  northern  Europe 
until  the  days  of  the  railway. 

When  we  reached  the  crest  of  this  watershed 
between  the  Bay  of  Biscay  and  the  Mediterra- 
nean, we  had  <a  noble  view  of  the  villages  far  be- 
neath. Around  us  was  a  strange  outcrop  of 
white  rock,  and  the  descent  to  Vitoria  was  barren 
too:  with  every  mile  the  scene  grew  bleaker  till 
the  rustling  woods  of  the  Basque  valleys  behind 
seemed  a  dream. 


34  Heroic  Spain 

Beyond  Miranda,  the  first  town  of  old  Castile, 
the  desolate  scene  appeared  in  its  full  awfulness. 
The  plain  lay  like  brown  dunes  of  sand,  "  as  for 
the  grass,  it  grew  as  scant  as  hair  in  leprosy." 
It  was  indeed  the  haunting  landscape  of  "  Childe 
Roland."  Passing  over  this  wide  stretch,  the 
train  again  mounted,  this  time  not  to  cross  an- 
other range  of  hills,  but  to  climb  to  the  great  trun- 
cated mountain  which  forms  the  center  of  Spain. 
Three-fourths  of  the  area  of  this  imagined  orange- 
laden  land  is  this  tragic  central  plateau,  com- 
prising Old  and  New  Castile,  Leon,  and  Es- 
tremadura.  Most  of  the  historic  cities  are  on  this 
bleak  upland,  almost  3,000  feet  above  the  sea, 
wind-swept,  wintry,  and  made  still  colder  by  the 
snow  mountains  that  cross  it  from  east  to  west. 
Riding  for  days  through  the  monotonous  scene 
you  begin  to  wonder  not  that  Spain  should  be 
poor,  but  rather  that  she,  an  agricultural  land, 
should  have  made  so  good  a  fight  against  such 
heavy  odds.  The  guide  books  that  so  harshly 
criticise,  saying  hers  is  a  land  where  Nature  has 
lavished  her  prodigalities  of  soil  and  climate  yet 
shiftless  man  has  refused  her  bounty,  seem  to 
forget  that  only  one-fourth  of  the  country  is  the 
traditional  rich  south.  The  fruitful  provinces 
form  but  the  fringe  of  the  Peninsula. 

It  was  early  October  when  we  mounted  the 
Pass  of  Pancorbo.  A  fierce  wind  was  blowing. 


Burgos  and  the  Cid  35 

It  suddenly  blew  open  the  door  of  our  compart- 
ment, and  flung  it  back,  smashing  the  glass.  It 
was  impossible  to  draw  it  to  in  the  fierce  gale,  and 
this  little  incident  added  to  the  desolation  round 
us.  We  looked  down  through  the  open  door  on 
the  white  road  of  the  Pass,  over  which  Napo- 
leon's armies  poured  a  hundred  years  before  to 
plunder  Spain  with  ruthless  cruelty,  and  yet,  so 
hidden  is  the  guidance  of  things,  that  seeming  dis- 
aster waked  the  country  from  its  long  abasement. 

Having  reached  the  great  central  steppes,  the 
same  melancholy  scene  continued.  The  land  was 
scorched  and  calcined.  Everything  was  a  dull 
brown.  Villages  were  undistinguishable  from  the 
plain,  and  the  churches  from  the  villages;  man, 
his  ass,  and  his  dog,  were  all  the  same  dull  tone. 
Even  the  brown  deserts  of  Egypt  failed  to  give 
me  as  powerful  a  sensation  of  the  forsaken.  The 
plateau  was  treeless,  except  for  an  occasional 
wind-threshed  poplar,  and  an  isolated  moth- 
eaten  poplar  can  be  the  final  touch  of  desolation. 
At  times,  miles  from  any  village,  a  solitary  fig- 
ure guided  his  oxen  and  plow  in  a  stony  field, 
or  silhouetted  against  the  sky  a  tandem  of  five  or 
six  mules  slowly  crawled  along.  Since  the  vil- 
lages are  far  apart,  each  worker  must  leave  his 
home  long  before  dawn  to  reach  his  distant  field, 
and  after  sunset  plod  back  patiently  to  the  aldea. 

Forlorn  as  it  all  appeared  one  saw  that  every 


36  Heroic  Spain 

inch  of  the  soil  was  under  cultivation.  The  peas- 
ants are  as  attached  to  their  cheerless  tract,  which 
has  its  one  hour  of  green  bloom  in  the  spring,  as 
are  the  Basques  to  their  beautiful  valleys.  The 
fields  are  passed  from  father  to  son,  and  are  ac- 
quired with  the  same  zest  as  are  teeming  English 
farms;  a  stern  soil  and  still  sterner  climate  has 
made  a  peasantry  full  of  grit  and  courage. 
Hardy  and  undepressed  they  gathered  round  the 
train  with  pleasant  greetings,  for  the  long  pauses 
in  the  stations  are  moments  of  sociability  from  one 
end  of  Spain  to  another.  The  sad  landscape 
continued  up  to  Burgos,  one  might  say  to  its 
very  gates  if  it  were  not  that  the  townspeople 
have  planted  avenues  of  trees  near  the  city. 

As  we  approached  we  had  a  splendid  view  of 
the  Cathedral  towers  dominating  the  town. 
There  was  something  magnificent  in  the  souls 
of  the  old  builders  who  made  a  temple  such  as  this 
in  the  midst  of  a  desert,  as  if  they  defied  the  arid 
desolation  to  conquer  their  soaring  faith.  The 
great  structure  rose  doubly  impressive  from  the 
juxtaposition  of  richness  and  sterility,  of  the 
spirit's  triumph  over  the  material  that  makes 
Burgos  as  impressive  in  its  way  as  Toledo  with 
its  more  imposing  setting. 

"  Nuestro  pals  es  el  pais  de  las  anomalias " 
says  the  critic  De  Larra,  and  the  first  step  in 
Spain  strikes  this  note.  She  is  a  land  of  violent 


Copyright,  19 10,  by  Underwood  &  Underwood 

BURGOS  CATHEDRAL  FROM  THE  CASTLE  HILL 


Burgos  and  the  Cid  37 

contrasts;  level  plain  and  broken  sierra,  elysian 
garden  of  Andalusia  and  tractless  wastes  of  Cas- 
tile, frosty  Burgos  and  sunny  Seville.  She  is  the 
home  of  the  hidalgo  and  home  of  the  strongest 
existing  democracy  between  man  and  man,  only 
equaled  by  early  Rome.  It  was  in  Burgos  we 
first  noticed  what  we  later  saw  frequently,  the 
labrador  who  drove  his  master's  carriage,  enter 
the  inn  with  him  and  sit  at  the  same  table  to  eat, 
master  and  man  alike  in  their  dignity.  She  has  a 
peasantry  beyond  praise  for  its  virile  industry, 
and  she  has  a  class  of  city  loafers  the  idlest  that 
ever  encumbered  a  plaza.  Cradle  of  exalted  mys- 
tics and  mother  of  realistic  painters,  this  land  of 
racy  personalities  never  -allows  one's  interest  to 


We  spent  a  week  in  Burgos,  and  not  once  did 
the  sun  shine.  The  cold  was  piercing.  At  the 
corner  of  every  street  a  biting  wind  seized  and 
buffeted  one  about;  besides  being  on  a  moun- 
tain, there  are  still  higher  mountains  near,  and 
snow  has  been  known  to  fall  in  June.  Wind  and 
cold,  however,  were  soon  forgotten  once  inside 
the  Cathedral.  Our  first  visit  was  within  the 
hour  of  arrival,  at  dusk  when  details  were  hidden. 
The  great  temple  rose  around  us  mysterious  and 
awe  inspiring.  Though  almost  with  the  first 
breath  of  wonder  came  a  sense  of  bewilderment, 
—  what  was  this  heavy  wall  rising  some  thirty 


38  Heroic  Spain 

feet  in  the  center  of  the  church,  that  hid  the  altar 
and  blocked  up  the  nave  so  that  only  an  encir- 
cling aisle  was  left  free?  So  confusing  was  it  I 
could  not  at  first  tell  by  what  door  we  had  en- 
tered, where  was  the  east,  where  was  the  west  end? 

Books  of  travel  all  tell  of  this  placing  of  the 
choir,  or  coro,  in  the  nave  of  Spanish  cathedrals, 
but  one  can  read  them  and  imagine  nothing  like 
the  reality.  I  had  pictured  an  open  platform 
running  down  the  center  of  the  church,  whereas 
high  walls  are  built  round  the  coro  as  well  as 
round  the  capilla  mayor,  thus  making  a  smaller 
church  within  a  larger  one.  Wherever  the  inner 
church  opens  on  the  other,  they  have  placed  a 
towering  metal  screen  called  a  reja.  A  narrow 
passageway,  fenced  by  an  open  rail,  usually  runs 
from  the  altar  enclosure  to  the  coro,  and  the 
people  gather  close  to  this,  under  the  transept- 
crossing  tower;  thus,  practically,  the  priest  at  the 
altar  and  the  canons  chanting  in  the  choir  are 
separated  by  the  congregation.  It  is  hard  to 
make  the  picture  clear.  I  feel  that  no  explana- 
tion can  prevent  this  arrangement  of  Spanish 
cathedrals  coming  as  a  surprise  to  the  traveler. 

The  evening  of  our  first  visit,  we  wandered 
round  in  the  dusk  bewildered  by  the  blocking 
coro,  and  at  length  entered  the  chapel  of  St.  Anne, 
where  a  service  was  going  on.  The  side  chapels 
of  Burgos  are  churches  in  themselves,  they  often 


Burgos  and  the  Cid  39 

belong  to  private  individuals,  this  of  St.  Anne 
being,  for  instance,  the  property  of  the  Duke  of 
Abrantes.  It  was  now  crowded  with  people  of  all 
kinds,  —  officers  in  uniform,  a  few  ladies  in  hats 
but  the  bulk  of  the  women  in  black  veils.  From 
a  small  balcony  on  one  side  the  litany  was  sung. 

Before  the  altar  was  what  appeared  to  be  a 
black  covered  bier,  so  I  thought  we  must  have 
stumbled  on  some  special  service  for  the  dead. 
This  would  account  for  so  large  a  gathering  on  a 
weekday,  for  at  first  one  fails  to  grasp  the  every- 
day religious  attitude  of  the  Spaniard.  Looking 
closer  at  the  bier  before  the  lighted  altar  a  hu- 
man figure  was  outlined  under  the  dark  pall. 
How  displeasing,  I  thought,  not  to  use  a  coffin! 

Suddenly  the  head  of  this  recumbent  figure  un- 
mistakably moved.  With  a  shiver  I  looked  round 
me.  No  one  appeared  to  notice  what  was  to  me 
so  terrifying,  yet  they  were  gazing  over  the  bier 
at  the  altar.  Strange  visions  floated  through  my 
imagination,  made  up  of  memories  of  Charles  V's 
funeral  before  his  death,  and  of  contorted  ac- 
counts of  Spain  and  her  ways.  Perhaps  it  was 
not  an  unusual  custom  here,  thus  morbidly  to 
sample  beforehand  one's  own  funeral  service. 
Then,  as  the  litanies  continued,  now  the  solo  from 
the  choir,  now  the  full-voiced  responses  of  the 
people,  I  realized  these  sweet  evening  melodies 
could  hardly  be  the  dirges  of  a  burial.  The  sup- 


40  Heroic  Spain 

position  of  a  living  corpse  was  too  bizarre  in  the 
midst  of  this  composed  crowd. 

I  fastened  my  eyes  on  the  round  head  of  the 
bier,  and  again  it  moved,  but  this  time  so  thor- 
oughly moved  that  the  mystery  was  solved.  With 
a  breath  of  relief  I  knew  this  was  indeed  a  quiet 
evening  service  and  what  had  seemed  a  bier  was 
merely  one  of  the  many  marble  tombs  before  the 
altars  of  old  churches,  covered  over  with  a  dark 
mantle  as  they  sometimes  are.  What  I  had  imag- 
ined the  round  head  of  a  corpse,  or  future  corpse, 
was  the  veil-draped  head  of  a  living  woman, 
seated  on  a  higher  chair  than  usual  between  the 
tomb  and  the  lighted  altar.  So  ended  my  first 
and  only  romantic  episode  in  Spain. 

I  mention  it  as  showing  with  what  vague 
notions  of  terror  the  average  English-speaking 
tourist  enters  this  harmless  land.  He  comes  full 
of  the  prejudices  inherited  from  the  days  of  the 
Invincible  Armada,  when  a  Spaniard  was  to  an 
Englishman  his  satanic  majesty  incarnate,  and 
this  in  an  age  of  which  Froude  himself,  the  en- 
thusiastic chronicler  of  Drake,  says:  "Perhaps 
nowhere  on  earth  was  there  a  finer  average  of 
distinguished  and  cultivated  society  than  in  the 
provincial  Castilian  cities." 

Strange  how  tenaciously  we  cling  to  disproved 
ideas,  I  thought,  as  the  next  day  we  examined  the 
beautiful  tomb  of  Bishop  Acuna  which  had 


Burgos  and  the  Cid          41 

caused  my  fright.  Spain  is  as  safe  to-day  as  any 
civilized  country.  Yet  we  met  two  Californian 
ladies  traveling  with  pistols,  about  as  needed  here 
as  firearms  in  the  lanes  of  Surrey  or  the  brigand- 
infested  hills  of  Massachusetts.  Little  by  little 
the  traveler  who  keeps  an  open  mind  learns  that 
the  cruel  and  morbid  Spaniard  of  the  popular 
fancy  has  no  existence  except  in  his  imagination. 
Unfortunately  there  will  always  be  some  travel- 
ers here  who  see  the  heads  on  death  biers  move 
and  carry  away  the  gruesome  tale  to  swell  the  old 
prejudices,  who  will  not  wait  long  enough  nor 
look  deep  enough  to  find  their  living  corpse  a 
noble  old  bishop  in  alabaster  who  has  lain  in  peace 
some  hundred  years. 

Every  day  of  our  week  in  Burgos  found  us 
several  times  in  the  Cathedral.  I  used  to  arrive 
for  the  High  Mass  at  nine,  though  before  day- 
break until  nine  there  had  been  many  services  in 
the  side  chapels;  it  is  still  the  custom  with  most 
Spaniards  to  kneel  in  recollection  every  morning. 
Strangely  enough,  I  soon  grew  reconciled  to  the 
clumsy  coro.  It  enabled  the  people  to  approach 
close  to  the  altar  in  a  peaceful  secluded  spot. 
Here  at  Burgos  one  can  kneel  on  the  altar's  very 
steps,  beside  the  big  sanctuary  lamp  and  the  sil- 
ver candlesticks  that  rise  higher  than  a  man. 
.The  onlooking  tourist,  who  often  spoils  Italian 
churches  for  those  who  go  to  pray  not  to  sightsee, 


42  Heroic  Spain 

in  Spain  is  not  permitted  his  ill-timed  liberty, 
He  can  wander  freely  through  the  outer  cathe- 
dral, but  during  the  Mass,  he  cannot  enter  this 
inner  temple  unless  he  conforms  to  the  accus- 
tomed usages.  All  must  kneel  at  the  moment  of 
the  Elevation  or  else  leave.  The  lesson  was 
taught  us  soon,  for  when  the  first  morning  in 
Burgos  a  lady  near  by  in  the  chancel  inadver- 
tently began  to  read  in  her  guide  book,  a  verger 
in  red  plush  cloak,  bearing  an  authoritative  silver 
staff,  approached,  and  kindly  but  firmly  showed 
her  out. 

The  richness  of  Spanish  cathedrals  at  first  is 
overpowering,  that  they  are  too  rich  and  over- 
loaded is  a  criticism  which  is  quite  justified,  but 
it  is  the  profusion  of  strength,  not  the  cluttering 
of  details  to  hide  a  weak  understructure ;  it  is 
a  profusion  that  speaks  the  nation's  character, 
her  burning  faith,  her  oriental  generosity.  In 
antique  silver,  jewels,  vestments,  wood  carvings, 
tombs,  they  are  veritable  museums  of  art.  A 
Spaniard  has  given  generously  to  the  church  in 
all  ages.  Though  even  when  prosperous  he  is 
content  to  live  with  a  frugal  simplicity  hardly 
understood  by  our  luxury-loving  time,  it  is  a  law 
of  his  nature  that  his  ideas  of  grandeur  and  of 
beauty  should  find  their  free  expression  in  the 
House  of  God.  I  often  had  the  sensation  that 
the  beggar  kneeling  in  these  truly  royal  churches 


Burgos  and  the  Cid  43 

felt  himself  a  part  of  them;  his  own  poor  home 
was  but  one  side  of  the  picture,  he  could  claim 
this  other  home  as  well. 

It  was  at  Burgos  we  first  met  in  the  churches 
minor  features  that  are  essentially  Spanish. 
The  organ  pipes  flare  out  like  trumpets;  the 
reredos,  or  retablo,  made  up  of  carved  wood  pan- 
els, rises  sometimes  to  a  hundred  feet  behind  the 
altar;  and  there  is  the  metal- work  of  the  great 
screens  or  rejas.  This  last  was  an  art  de  propia 
Esparto,,  and  her  churches  would  lack  half  their 
sublimity  without  the  massive  fretwork  of  iron  or 
brass  that  shuts  in  the  richly-decked  altars.  At 
Burgos  we  especially  noticed  the  reja  of  the  Con- 
destable  chapel,  with  graceful  wind-blown  fig- 
ures at  the  top.  In  the  choir,  round  the  lectern 
were  piled  ancient  psalm  books,  some  of  them 
three  feet  high,  their  calfskin  covers  strength- 
ened with  metal  claspings.  The  naturalness  with 
which  these  priceless  books  are  treated  shows  how 
happily  bound  to  preceding  generations,  with  no 
break  of  revolution  and  destruction,  is  this  old 
land.  This  thought  of  the  antiquity  of  her  us- 
ages is  a  very  potent  one  to  every  Spaniard,  and 
the  stranger  too  finds  the  purple  robed  canons 
chanting  in  their  choir-stalls  more  impressive 
because  for  six  hundred  years  in  this  same  Cathe- 
dral they  have  intoned  daily  these  same  psalms. 

Another  national  talent  is  her  carving  in  wood. 


44  Heroic  Spain 

The  choir-stalls  here  were  a  revelation.  The  mas- 
ters of  this  art,  Berruguete,  Vigarni,  Montanes, 
may  not  be  known  to  the  rest  of  Europe,  but  they 
are  locally  very  famous.  Their  intense  realism 
appeals  to  the  popular  mind,  and  though  in  later 
centuries  this  realism  degenerated  into  the  bad 
taste  of  hanging  the  statues  with  robes,  enough 
of  earlier  art  remains  to  make  one  overlook  these 
lapses.  Should  not  a  poet  be  judged  by  his  best 
lines?  Why  must  an  image  in  wig  and  jewels 
blind  one  to  the  remarkable  carved  statues  found 
side  by  side  with  it? 

/  The  wood  carvers  of  Spain  speak  the  same  lan- 
guage of  sincerity  as  the  mystic  writers,  and  a 
"knowledge  of  Luis  de  Leon,  St.  John  of  the 
Cross  and  St.  Teresa,  makes  one  better  appreci- 
ate the  sculptors.  Not  that  they  too  are  mystical. 
They  do  not  soar  so  high.  It  is  only  a  few  chosen 
souls  here  and  there  through  the  centuries  who 
can  walk  that  perilous  path,  and  probably  they 
can  express  themselves  only  through  the  more 
intangible  medium  of  speech.  But  these  wood 
carvings  are  the  fruit  of  men  who  understood  the 
mystics  and  who  worked  in  a  like  spirit  of  intense 
faith.  I  should  say  it  was  not  in  her  paintings 
that  the  religious  essence  of  this  race  was  to  be 
found,  not  in  the  somewhat  posing  monks  of  Zur- 
baran,  nor  in  the  gentle  religiosity  of  Murillo's 
madonnas.  Though  a  master  of  color,  Murillo 


Burgos  and  the  Cid  45 

is  too  often  akin  in  spirit  to  Carlo  Dolce  and 
Sassoferrato.  It  is  the  fashion  to  call  these  typi- 
cally religious  painters.  But  in  the  carved  bibli- 
cal scenes  of  retablo  and  silleria  is  shown  more 
truly  the  inner  spiritual  intelligence  of  the  serious 
Spaniard.  Velasquez  spoke  for  the  reality  of  his 
time,  its  chivalry,  its  material  force;  and  these 
masters  of  wood  carving  in  more  halting  speech 
expressed  the  religious  aspirations  of  the  people. 
They  worked  with  a  realism  that  is  often  painful, 
yet  the  intensity  with  which  they  felt  the  scenes 
they  depicted  links  them  with  the  mystics.  The 
wood  carvings  have  not  had  justice  done  them, 
perhaps  because  they  are  for  the  most  part 
painted,  which  certainly  detracts  from  them. 
Fortunately  choir-stalls  were  left  in  the  natural 
wood,  those  at  Burgos  being  a  rich  dark  walnut 
with  the  polish  that  time  only  can  give.  We 
spent  many  happy  hours  studying  this  twelve 
years'  work  of  the  sculptor  Vigarni.  The  seats 
are  carved  with  grotesque,  fantastic  creatures, 
half  man,  half  beast,  the  arm  of  the  chair  now 
made  by  an  acrobat  bent  double  backward,  now 
by  a  monster  with  a  tail  in  his  mouth,  or  some 
bat-like  demon.  There  is  a  frieze  of  Old  Testa- 
ment scenes  too  high  to  be  well  seen,  but  below 
them  the  New  Testament  story  is  told  from  the 
Annunciation  to  the  Doubting  Thomas  after  the 
Resurrection.  Though  the  simpleness  of  earlier 


46  Heroic  Spain 

times  is  shown  in  the  miniature  devil  that  passes 
from  the  possessed  man's  lips,  and  in  Mary  Mag- 
dalene's dropped  jaw  of  surprise  when  she  meets 
her  risen  Lord,  these  carvings  are  not  merely 
curious,  they  are  soul-touching  and  beautiful. 
The  type  of  face  is  the  high-boned  one  the 
Spaniard  prefers,  with  well-cut  brows  and  aqui- 
line nose.  Notice  the  solemn  beauty  of  Christ's 
face  in  the  qui  ci  ne  pecato.  In  the  panel,  the 
blind  cured,  seldom  has  the  expression  of  absolute 
faith  been  better  rendered  than  in  the  raised  face 
of  the  old  blind  man.  Do  not  pass  by  the  Garden 
of  Gethsemane  with  the  three  Apostles  lying 
heavily  asleep,  the  human  shrug  of  the  shoulder 
and  outstretched  hand  of  the  Master:  "  Could 
ye  not  watch  with  me  one  hour?  " 

While  the  Cathedral  of  Burgos  shows  much! 
florid  later  work,  especially  the  central  tower  and 
that  of  the  Condestable  chapel,  under  the  too 
ornate  additions  the  ancient  purer  church  is 
plainly  perceptible.  It  belonged  to  the  Gothic 
of  the  Northern-France  type,  for  pilgrims  to 
her  shrines  and  to  fight  in  her  crusades,  brought 
foreign  ideas  to  Spain  at  so  early  a  date  that  it 
is  useless  to  speculate  about  what  a  native  archi- 
tecture might  have  been. 

Some  of  the  smaller  churches  of  the  town  are 
worth  visiting,  such  as  San  Nicolas,  with  a  stone 
retablo  which  is  a  tour  de  force  of  handicraft; 


Burgos  and  the  Cid  47 

San  Lermes,  and  facing  it  the  hospital  of  San 
Juan,  where  we  first  met  the  escutcheoned  door- 
ways of  Spain,  which,  if  kept  within  bounds,  are 
arrogantly  effective  and  national.  Throughout 
the  city  are  good  examples  of  domestic  archi- 
tecture, such  as  the  Casa  del  Cordon,  built  by  the 
Constable  of  Castile,  Don  Pedro  Fernandez  de 
Velasco,  whose  sumptuous  tomb  lies  in  the  center 
of  the  Condestable  Chapel,  and  whose  pride  as  a 
Castilian  speaks  in  the  family  proverb : 

"Antes  que  Dios  fuese  Dios, 
0  que  el  sol  iluminaba  los  penascos, 
Ya  era  noble  la  casa  de  los  Velascos." 

"  Before  God  was  God,  or  the  sun  shone  upon 
the  rocks,  already  was  the  house  of  Velasco 
noble."  1  Above  the  entrance  to  his  house  the 
girdle  of  St.  Francis  connects  his  arms  with 
those  of  his  wife,  as  proud  as  he,  for  she  was  a 
Mendoza.  One  rainy  afternoon  we  spent  in  the 
Museo  over  the  Gateway  of  Santa  Maria,  and 
there,  step  by  step,  traced  Spain's  art  history,  — 
statues  from  the  former  Roman  city  of  Clunia  in 

1  When  the  Duke  of  Osuna,  the  Spanish  Ambassador  to  England 
in  Elizabeth's  reign,  dropped  some  pearls  of  price  from  his  embroid- 
ered cloak,  he  disdained  to  pick  them  up.  A  nobler  form  of  Castilian 
haughtiness  was  that  of  the  Marques  de  Villena  who,  refusing  to  live  in 
his  palace  after  a  traitor  (the  Constable  de  Bourbon)  had  been  lodged 
there,  set  fire  to  it.  There  is  something  that  appeals  to  the  imagina- 
tion in  many  of  the  privileges  of  Spanish  nobles.  Thus  the  Marques 
de  Astorga  to-day,  is  hereditary  canon  in  Leon  Cathedral,  because  one 
of  the  Osorios  fought  in  the  battle  of  Clavijo,  in  846. 


48  Heroic  Spain 

this  province,  a  remarkable  enameled  altar-front 
of  the  Byzantine  period,  Romanesque  and  Gothic 
relics  from  the  monasteries  out  on  the  plains,  a 
Moorish  arch  found  in  situ,  and  tombs  of  that 
transition  time  from  Gothic  to  Renaissance  which 
in  Spain  was  so  flourishing  a  phase  of  art. 

Much  as  there  is  to  hold  one  in  the  town,  the 
bleak  uplands  outside  have  a  desolate  fascination 
that  calls  one  out  to  them.  There  is  an  excursion 
to  be  made  not  far  away  to  the  Monastery  of 
Miraflores,  where  Isabella  built  for  her  parents 
"  the  most  perfectly  glorious  tomb  in  the  world." 
Personally  I  prefer  the  quieter  art  of  a  Mino  da 
Fiesole  to  this  work  of  Gil  de  Siloe,  rich  though 
it  is.  The  tomb  is  white  marble,  octagonal  in 
shape,  with  sixteen  lions  supporting  it.  The 
weak  Juan  II  lies  by  the  side  of  his  queen,  who  is 
turned  slightly  from  him  to  read  in  her  Book 
of  Hours,  in  a  natural  attitude,  as  if  she  said 
pleasantly,  "  Now  do  be  silent,  I  must  read  in 
peace  for  a  few  minutes."  At  Miraflores  is  a 
wooden  statue  of  St.  Bruno,  with  a  keen  and 
subtle  face  of  the  same  ascetic  type  as  that  of  the 
young  monk  we  watched  praying  quite  oblivious 
of  the  gaping  tourists.  It  is  of  this  statue  that 
Philip  IV  remarked:  "It  does  not  speak,  but 
only  because  he  is  a  Carthusian  monk."  The  in- 
difference to  strangers  in  the  mystic  young  peni- 
tent before  the  altar  was  our  second  meeting  with 


Burgos  and  the  Cid  49 

a  trait  found  in  the  average  Spaniard.  He  does 
not  care  an  iota  what  the  stranger  thinks  of  him. 
He  is  not  like  the  Italian,  inclined  to  put  his  best 
foot  forward.  He  will  not  change  his  ways  be- 
cause they  are  criticised;  you  can  admire  or  you 
can  dislike,  it  makes  little  difference  to  him;  and 
this  quiet  poise,  in  peasant  as  well  as  grandee,  is  not 
fatuous,  for  its  root  lies  in  an  innate  self-respect. 
He  feels  he  is  loyal  to  his  God,  to  his  King,  and 
to  himself,  —  what  better  standards  can  you  have? 
Avenues  of  trees  lead  out  to  another  house  of 
the  Benedictine  rule,  a  convent  for  nuns  founded 
by  the  sister  of  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion.  Many 
ladies  of  the  royal  line  have  retired  to  Las 
Huelgas,  the  nuns  brought  their  dowries,  and  the 
mitered  abbess  held  the  rank  of  Princess-Pala- 
tine, with  the  power  of  capital  punishment.  The 
church  has  outside  cloisters  for  the  laity;  the 
cloisters  within  the  convent  are  never  seen  except 
on  the  rare  occasions  of  a  king's  visit,  when  all 
who  are  able  crowd  in  at  the  moment  he  enters. 
We  were  standing  before  the  chancel  where  so 
many  knights  had  performed  the  vigil  of  the  ar- 
mor —  among  others  Edward  I  of  England  was 
knighted  here  —  when  a  nun  entered  the  coro9 
and  in  her  trailing  white  robes  bowed  toward  the 
altar  —  rather  it  was  the  slow  courtesy  of  a  court 
lady.  We  shrank  away  with  the  feeling  that  we 
had  intruded  uninvited  on  a  ceremony,  that  the 


^o  Heroic  Spain 

days  of  the  abbess,  Princess-Palatine,  were  the 
reality  and  we,  inquisitive  guide-book  tourists,  the 
anacronism,  a  sensation  not  uncommon  in  Spain. 
\J  Burgos  is  the  birthplace  of  the  national  hero, 
the  Cid  Campeador,  "  God's  scourge  upon  the 
Moor."  This  contemporary  of  William  the  Con- 
queror, whom  the  erudites  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury tried  in  vain  to  prove  a  mythical  character,1 
may  be  said  to  dominate  Spanish  literature. 
Spain's  epic,  the  "  Romancero  del  Cid,"  has  made 
its  hero  the  historic  Cid  for  all  time,  just  as 
Shakespeare's  genius  vitalized  a  Henry  V.  Don 
Roderick  Diaz  de  Bivar  was  born  under  the 
castle  hill  of  Burgos  in  1026,  some  small  monu- 
ments standing  on  the  site  of  his  casa  solar.  He 
was  a  champion  of  popular  rights,  generous,  chiv- 
alrous, faithful  ever  to  his  wife  Jimena,  a  true 
guerrilla  warrior,  like  the  men  of  his  age,  some- 
times crafty  and  cruel.  The  Cid  was  every  inch 
a  man,  as  his  fellow  countrymen  are  eminently 
varonil,  his  hold  on  the  heart  of  the  people  is  se- 
cure. There  are  no  poems  in  the  world  whose 
lines  ring  and  clang  more  valiantly  than  the  "  Ro- 

1  The  blood  of  the  Cid  flows  to-day  in  the  veins  of  Alfonso  XIII 
through  his  descent  both  from  the  French  Bourbons  and  from  Spain's 
earlier  royal  house.  A  daughter  of  the  Campeador  married  an  infante 
of  Navarre,  whose  granddaughter  married  Sancho  III  of  Castile.  The 
son  of  this  king  was  the  good  and  great  Alfonso  VIII  61  de  las  Navas, 
who,  married  to  Eleanor  of  England  (they  both  lie  buried  in  Las  Huel- 
gas),  was  grandfather  alike  of  St.  Ferdinand  III  of  Castile  and  St.  Louis 
IX  of  France. 


Burgos  and  the  Cid  5  i 

mancero."     Here   is   untamed   red   blood   and 
courage: 

"  With  bucklers  braced  before  their  breasts,  with  lances 

pointing  low, 
With  stooping  crests  and  heads  bent  down  above  the 

saddle-bow, 
All  firm  of  hand  and  high  of  heart,  they  roll  upon  the 

foe. 
And  he  that  in  a  good  hour  was  born,  his  clarion  voice 

rings  out, 

And  clear  above  the  clang  of  arms  is  heard  his  battle- 
shout, 
6  Among  them,  gentlemen !     Strike  home  for  love  of 

charity ! 
The  Champion  of  Bivar  is  here  —  Ruy  Diaz  —  I  am 

he!' 
Then  bearing  where  Bermuez  still  maintains  unequal 

fight 
Three  hundred  lances  down  they  come,  their  pennons 

flickering  white ; 
Down  go  three  hundred  Moors  to  earth,  a  man  to 

every  blow; 

And  when  they  wheel,  three  hundred  more,  as  charg- 
ing back  they  go. 

It  was  a  sight  to  see  the  lances  rise  and  fall  that  day ; 
The  shivered  shields  and  riven  mail,  to  see  how  thick 

they  lay; 
The  pennons  that  went  in  snow-white  came  out  a  gory 

red; 

The  horses  running  riderless,  the  riders  lying  dead; 
While  Moors  called  on  Mohammed,  and  '  St.  James  ' 

the  Christians  cry."  * 

1  Translated  by  Ormsby. 


52  Heroic  Spain 

/Wandering  minstrels  sang  these  chansons  de 
gestes  for  centuries,  till  they  were  a  very  part  of 
the  nation.  The  wooing  of  Jimena  is  strong  with 
the  unconscious  vigor  of  those  times.  The  Cid 
had  slain  her  father  in  combat : 

"  But  when  the  fair  Jimena  came  forth  to  plight  her 

hand, 

Rodrigo  gazing  on  her,  his  face  could  not  command ; 
He  stood  and  blushed  before  her;    then  at  the  last 

said  he, 

*  I  slew  thy  sire,  Jimena,  but  not  in  villany : 
In  no  disguise  I  slew  him,  man  against  man  I  stood, 
There  was  some  wrong  between  us,  and  I  did  shed  his 

blood. 

I  slew  a  man,  I  owe  a  man ;  fair  lady,  by  God's  grace, 
An   honored  husband  thou   shalt   have   in   thy   dead 

father's  place.'  " 

And  to  the  end  the  free-lance  warrior  proved  a 
gallant  husband.  The  ballad  of  their  wedding 
feast  was  often  in  my  mind  in  the  silent  streets 
of  Burgos. 

"  Within  his  hall  of  Burgos  the  king  prepares  the  feast, 
He  makes  his  preparation  for  many  a  noble  guest, 
It  is  a  j  oyful  city,  it  is  a  gallant  day, 
'T  is   the   Campeador's   wedding,   and  who   will   bide 
away  ? 

They  have  scattered  olive  branches  and  rushes  on  the 
street, 

And  the  ladies  flung  down  garlands  at  the  Campea- 
dor's feet, 


Burgos  and  the  Cid  53 

With  tapestry  and  broidery  their  balconies  between, 
To  do  his  bridal  honor,  their  walls  the  burghers  screen. 

They  lead  the  bulls  before  them  all  covered  o'er  with 

trappings, 
The  little  boys  pursue  them  with  hootings  and  with 

clappings, 
The  fool  with  cap   and  bladder   upon  his   ass   goes 

prancing 
Amid  troops  of  captive  maidens  with  bells  and  cymbals 

dancing."  1 

The  old  poet  must  have  written  with  his  eye 
straight  on  his  subject;  those  eleventh  century 
urchins  baiting  the  bulls  are  startlingly  realistic. 
When  the  Cid  died,  at  Valencia,  in  1099,  still 
called  on  the  maps  Valencia  del  Cid,  he  was 
placed  in  full  armor  on  his  battle  horse,  Bavieca, 
and  brought  to  San  Pedro  de  Cardefia,  eight 
miles  from  Burgos.  Thither  Jimena  retired, 
and  on  her  death  was  laid  with  her  husband.  The 
faithful  horse,  famous  in  the  "  Romancero  "  as 
Jimena  herself,  was  buried  under  a  tree  of  the 
convent  near  his  master.  For  the  Cid  had  left 
word,  "  When  you  bury  Bavieca,  dig  deep.  For 
shameful  thing  were  it  that  he  should  be  eaten  by 
curs  who  hath  trod  down  so  much  currish  flesh  of 
Moors."  To-day  Bavieca's  master  does  not  lie  in 
the  quiet  dignity  of  San  Pedro.  After  various 
vicissitudes  his  remains  are  kept  in  a  chest  in  the 

1  "Ancient  Spanish  Ballads,"  translated  by  Lockhart. 


54  Heroic  Spain 

city  hall  of  Burgos,  not  the  most  appropriate  of 
sepulchers  for  a  national  hero. 

On  the  last  day  of  our  stay  in  the  old  Gothic 
city,  we  climbed  the  hill  from  which  it  doubtless 
got  its  name,  Burg,  a  fortified  eminence.  The 
castle  where  the  Cid  was  married  is  a  complete 
ruin,  for  when  the  French  evacuated  the  fort  in 
1813  they  blew  it  up.  On  every  side  stretched  the 
level  melancholy  plain,  and  silhouetted  against  it 
was  the  elaborate  stone  lace-work  of  the  Cathedral. 
For  long  I  looked  out  on  the  remarkable  land- 
scape, so  far  from  beautiful  yet  so  thought  arous- 
ing. Little  by  little  I  was  learning  how  a  race 
can  be  ascetic  to  its  inmost  core  yet  express  itself 
in  grandiose  architecture;  exalted  in  soul  yet  the 
most  realistic  people  in  Europe;  serious  and  dig- 
nified, yet  childlike  in  their  zest  of  life.  Here  was 
man  in  his  unsubtle  vigor,  not  so  liberal  that  he 
had  no  creed  left,  not  so  polished  that  he  had  lost 
the  power  of  first  wonder  and  emotion.  Life  was 
lived  here,  not  analyzed  and  missed. 


VALLADOLID 

"  They  have  no  song  the  sedges  dry 

And  still  they  sing, 

It  is  within  my  heart  they  sing  as  I  pass  by, 
Within   my   heart   they   touch   a  spring, 

They  wake  a  sigh, 
There  is  but  sound  of  sedges  dry 
In  me  they  sing." 

GEORGE  MEEEDITH. 

FROM  Burgos  to  Valladolid  the  monotonous  Cas- 
tile plain  continued,  unbroken  by  any  hill  and 
hardly  a  tree.  Yet  evening  on  the  level  steppes 
has  a  charm  of  its  own.  Like  sunset  at  sea, 
nature  has  a  free  sweep  of  canvas  on  which  to 
paint  her  pageant;  details  eliminated,  the  essen- 
tial remains.  One  carries  away  many  such 
memories  from  the  silent  plateau,  till  little  by 
little  the  affection  of  the  grave  Castilian  for  his 
home  is  understood. 

On  leaving  Burgos  there  had  occurred  an 
amusing  station  scene.  The  man  at  the  ticket 
office  told  us  we  could  not  start  till  the  following 
day,  as  the  train,  on  the  point  of  arriving,  was 
already  full.  So  in  discouragement  we  turned 
back  to  the  distant  hotel.  Half  way  there  a  mes- 


56  Heroic  Spain 

senger  from  the  station  overtook  us  to  say  they 
had  telegraphed  ahead  that  there  would  be  a  few 
seats  in  the  second  class.  We  returned  in  time 
to  board  the  packed  train,  and  since  it  was  the 
express  to  Madrid  the  second  class  carriages  were 
excellent.  As  was  the  custom  all  over  Spain,  the 
hotel  bus  at  Valladolid  was  waiting,  and  drove 
us- immediately  to  the  inn,  where  we  had  the  usual 
bare  but  clean  rooms,  and  the  usual  well-cooked 
generous  dinner :  if  the  trains  were  to  pick  us  up 
as  they  chose,  at  any  rate  we  were  not  going  to 
starve  or  be  eaten  alive. 

It  is  well  to  have  the  first  view  of  Valladolid  by 

*  night  as  we  did,  under  an  early  moon,  for  in  the 
daytime  it  is  modern,  flat,  and  unpicturesque,  a 
sharp  contrast  to  Burgos.     The  moonlight  soon 
tempted  us  out  to  explore  the  town.    In  the  Plaza 
Mayor  all  was  animation,  an  unbroken  prome- 
nade of  people  under  the  arcades  before  the  gay 
shops,  officers  in  bright  uniforms,  and  ladies  in 
Parisian  hats;  it  might  have  been  any  provincial 
city  in  Europe.    Apart  from  this  active  lung  of 
the  town,  the  quiet  streets  were  so  deserted  that 
our  footsteps  roused  a  startling  echo.    We  passed 
under  the  huge  fragment  of  the  Cathedral,  a  nave 
only;  the  transepts  stand  roofless,  and  a  new  ruin 
is  as  depressing  a  thing  as  there  is  in  life.     The 

*  architect    of    the    Escorial    who    designed    this, 
Herrera,  gave  his  name  to  the  pseudo-classic 


UNIVERSITY 

Valladolid  57 

\ 

style,  "  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority,"  that 
followed  the  Plateresque  abuse  of  ornament,  just 
as  his  in  turn  was  succeeded  by  the  fantastic 
prancing  art  of  Churriguera,  again  a  reaction. 
An  example  of  this  last,  the  University,  stood  in 
the  square  near  the  Cathedral,  and  even  the  kindly 
moonlight  could  not  soften  the  overladen  mean- 
ingless mass;  the  cold  severe  lines  of  Herrera 
were  dignified  and  regrettable  in  comparison. 
For  me  a  Churrigueresque  building  is  the  ne  plus 
ultra  of  bad  taste  in  architecture,  and  Spain  has  a 
wealth  of  them.  That  man  can  raise  a  Santiago 
and  a  Leon,  and  some  four  hundred  years  later 
a  San  Isidro  of  Madrid,  that  the  same  race  can 
carve  a  Portico  de  la  Gloria  and  the  Trans- 
parente  of  Toledo,  show  interesting  possibilities 
of  retrogression!  Alas!  we  thought,  after  the 
strong  old  Gothic  of  Burgos,  is  Valladolid  going 
to  be  just  barren  like  its  Cathedral  and  chaotic 
like  its  University?  We  went  on  in  the  moon- 
light and  came  to  a  white  gleaming  plaza  where  a 
church  of  the  thirteenth  century  stood  isolated, 
Santa  Maria  la  Antigua,  with  a  beautiful  Lom- 
bard tower,  and  also  that  feature  peculiar  to 
Romanesque  art  in  Spain,  an  outside  cloister  for 
the  laity.  This  was  decidedly  better. 

The  next  morning  when  we  came  to  explore 
the  town,  though  we  found  no  Gothic,  we  had  our 
first  introduction  to  a  phase  of  architecture  which 


5  8  Heroic  Spain 

is  confined  to  the  Peninsula.  It  coincided  with 
Isabella's  reign,  and  was  a  characteristic  outburst 
of  its  new  wealth  and  conquests,  appropriately 
efflorescent  and  grandiose,  though  if  carried  one 
step  beyond  it  would  be  decadent.  This  short 
period  is  called  Plateresque,  from  platero,  silver- 
smith, for  its  elaborate  surface  decoration  of 
scrolls,  medallions,  and  heraldic  ornament  is  sub- 
limated smith's  work.  It  occurred  during  the 
transition  from  Gothic  to  Renaissance,  so  it  com- 
bined itself  with  either  one  or  the  other  of  these 
styles.  It  may  be  dull  to  give  these  pedagogical 
details  and  yet,  as  I  hinted,  if  one  is  to  under- 
stand Spain,  one  must  have  some  smattering  of 
architecture.  Valladolid  is  worth  stopping  to  see 
on  one's  entrance  to  Spain,  if  it  were  only  for  the  ' 
clear-cut  summary  it  gives  of  the  different 
schools,  always  excepting  Gothic.  As  it  and  Sal- 
amanca were  the  two  places  where  the  silver- 
smith's art  flourished,  so  they  are  the  two  centers 
for  the  best  Plateresque  buildings.  They  happen 
to  be,  unfortunately,  the  two  cities  that  suffered 
most  from  the  French  invasion.  Their  churches 
and  colleges  were  pillaged  and  battered,  and 
though  in  modern  times  they  have  been  restored, 
the  first  touch  of  perfection,  "  the  first  fine  care- 
less rapture"  can  never  be  recaught. 

Valladolid    has    three    notable    examples    of 
Plateresque,  San  Pablo,  San  Gregorio,  and  the 


THE  FACADE  or  SAN  GREGORIO,  VALLADOLID 


Valladolid  5  9 

Colegio  de  Santa  Cruz.  If  you  have  a  weakness 
for  the  art  of  the  builder  this  introduction  to  the 
rich  and  admirable  expression  of  Spain  at  the 
zenith  of  her  material  power  is  an  occasion. 
There  is  an  excitement  in  coming  on  something 
original  which  has  not  been  hackneyed  by  photo- 
graph. Thus,  when  I  first  entered  the  square 
where  San  Pablo's  facade  rises,  I  stood  still  in  as- 
tonishment; I  had  never  seen  anything  like  this, 
and  at  first  I  could  not  tell  if  I  liked  it  or  not. 
Tier  on  tier  soared  the  carved  shields  and  crests, 
bizarre  but  nevertheless  stately.  Close  by  was 
the  even  stranger  facade  of  San  Gregorio,  one 
vast  crest  with  elaborate  arabesques  and  statues. 
Being  founded  by  the  great  primate  of  Toledo, 
Cardinal  Ximenez,  it  was  appropriate  to  meet 
here  in  the  courtyard  with  some  Mudejar  work, 
Christian  and  Moorish  elements  combined.  It 
was  in  this  convent  that  the  Dominican,  Barto- 
lome  Las  Casas,  "  Apostle  of  the  Indians,"  spent 
the  last  twenty  years  of  his  energetic,  troubled 
life,  writing  his  history  of  the  Colonies.  He  died 
at  the  advanced  age  of  ninety-two,  "  A  man 
who  would  have  been  remarkable  in  any  age  of 
the  world,"  says  Ticknor,  "  and  who  does  not 
seem  yet  to  have  gathered  in  the  full  harvest  of 
his  honours."  The  third  of  the  Plateresque 
buildings,  well  within  Renaissance  lines  this  last, 
the  College  of  the  Holy  Cross  founded  by  Car- 


60  Heroic  Spain 

dinal  Mendoza,  now  contains  a  grammar  school, 
a  library  of  some  thousand  volumes  open  to  the 
public,  and  the  Museum  of  the  city. 

On  no  account  should  the  Museo  be  missed,  for 
it  holds  a  wonderful  collection  of  wood  carvings, 
an  art  which  is  to  Spain  what  Italy's  frescoes  are 
to  her:  these  statues  were  gathered  chiefly  from 
convents  sacked  by  the  French.  Valladolid  was 
personally  associated  with  this  national  develop- 
ment, for  most  of  the  master-carvers  lived  at  one 
time  or  another  in  the  city.  Spain's  best  sculptor, 
Berruguete,  worked  for  years  for  the  monks  of 
San  Benito,  the  retablo  of  whose  church  is  now  in 
detached  statues  in  the  museum.  He  had  studied 
under  Michael  Angelo,  and  though  he  had  a  dis- 
tinct personality  of  his  own,  he  plainly  showed 
Italian  influence.  His  pupil,  Esteban  Jordan, 
lived  here,  also  the  exaggerated  Juan  de  Juni, 
and  a  more  famous  master,  Alonzo  Cano,  painter 
and  architect  too.  Cano,  who  died  a  canon  in 
Granada  Cathedral,  is  said  to  have  fled  the  town 
—  his  house  is  still  pointed  out  —  when  accused 
of  the  murder  of  his  wife,  though  later  investiga- 
tions have  thrown  doubt  on  the  whole  story. 
This  irascible  master,  one  of  the  warmest  hearted 
of  men  underneath,  taught  drawing  to  the  Don 
Baltasar  Carlos  whom  Velasquez  painted,  and  I 
fear  the  infante  found  him  very  cross  at  times. 
Velasquez  and  Cano  were  friends  and  must  have 


Valladolid  61 

talked  over  that  charming  little  prince.  Cano 
was  indeed  a  character.  When  a  corporation 
demurred  at  the  price  of  a  statue  he  had  made 
for  them  he  shattered  the  image  with  a  blow; 
and  on  his  death  bed  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  kiss  an  inartistic  crucifix,  saying,  "  Give  me 
a  plain  cross  that  I  may  venerate  Jesucristo  as 
he  is  pictured  in  my  own  mind." 

The  room  of  coarsely-carved  statues,  formerly 
used  in  the  Holy  Week  processions,  should  be 
passed  with  a  glance,  but  the  collection  of  smaller 
works  deserves  long  study.  The  most  beautiful 
group  I  thought  was  the  Baptism  in  the  Jordan 
by  a  later  carver,  Gregorio  Hernandez,  of  Gali- 
cia,  who  died  in  Valladolid  in  1636.  His  art  is  not 
classic,  indeed  most  Spanish  sculptors  cared  little 
for  the  ideal  perfection  of  the  human  body,  their 
strength  lay  in  the  individual  portrait,  not  in  ren- 
dering a  type.  Hernandez  softened  the  crudity 
or  the  realist  school  to  which  he  belonged  by  de- 
picting nobility  of  face  and  bearing.  The  scene 
of  the  Jordan  is  a  panel  with  the  two  chief  figures 
life-sized  in  full  relief.  The  Eaptist,  his  well- 
modeled  limbs  strong  from  life  in  the  desert,  leans 
forward  to  pour  the  river  water  on  the  head  of  his 
Lord,  with  an  expression  of  such  vivid  rapture 
and  awe  that  it  holds  you  spellbound.  There  is 
little  in  art  that  can  surpass  this  in  emotional  sin- 
cerity. The  story  of  the  Gospel  is  told  to  its  full- 


62  Heroic  Spain 

est  possibility.  What  the  sculptor  felt  in  every 
fiber  he  has  succeeded  in  making  others  feel,  and 
though  an  expression  so  poignant  may  not  be 
highest  art,  it  justifies  itself  by  its  direct  appeal 
to  the  human  heart.  It  is  told  of  Hernandez 
that  he  never  undertook  a  work  till  he  had  first 
prayed.  He  has  here  also  a  statue  of  St.  Teresa, 
spoiled  by  the  heavy  paint,  and  a  bust  of  St. 
Anne,  successfully  colored.  Even  if  you  are 
prepared  to  find  the  wood  carvings  painted  it 
frets  you;  it  almost  spoils  the  statues,  but  it  was 
ihe  custom  and  must  be  accepted.  "  Es  la  costum- 
bre  "  is  a  closing  argument  in  a  country  whose 
link  with  the  past  has  never  been  rudely  broken. 
If  her  remarkable  wood  carvings  come  as  a  sur- 
prise, so  will  some  of  the  practical  developments 
of  this  small  progressive  city.  The  hospital  that 
looks  out  on  the  leafy  park  of  the  Magdalena  is 
run  in  approved  modern  fashion.  A  brisk  young 
doctor  who  spoke  English,  having  learned  from  a 
friend  in  the  English  College  here,  showed  us 
over  the  wards  with  legitimate  pride.  They  radi- 
ated from  a  big  central  rotunda ;  on  both  sides  of 
each  ward  were  large  windows  and  at  the  end  of 
each  a  pretty  altar.  There  were  five  hundred 
public  beds,  and  private  rooms  were  to  be  had  for 
the  sum  of  two  dollars  a  week!  The  greeting 
between  doctor  and  patients  was  a  pleasant  thing 
to  see, —  he  chatted  and  joked  with  the  chil- 


Valladolid  63 

dren,  and,  as  we  left,  stopped  at  the  door  to  lift 
with  real  kindness  an  ill  man  who  had  just 
arrived  in  a  gayly-painted  country  cart.  The 
newcomer  was  a  gentle-faced  Castilian,  whose 
sons  had  brought  him  in  from  the  plains;  as 
the  stalwart  boys  carried  the  trembling  old  man 
I  thought  of  another  touching  hospital  scene. 
Perhaps  Rab  and  his  friends  came  to  my  mind 
because  bounding  round  us  on  our  visit  to  the 
hospital  was  a  beautiful  Scotch  collie.  "  Lad- 
die "  was  an  unfamiliar  sight  on  a  Spanish  street; 
he  belonged  to  the  English  College  and  is  a  great 
pet  of  the  seminarians. 

In  Valladolid  are  two  foreign  institutions :  the 
Scotch  college,  founded  by  a  Colonel  Semple  in 
1627;  and  the  English,  which  continues  the  foun- 
dation of  St.  Albans,  and  has  relics  of  its  name- 
saint  of  the  third  century.  It  was  endowed  in 
Spain  by  Sir  Francis  Englefield,  who  retired  here 
after  the  execution  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots. 
Some  forty  English  students  are  educated  for  the 
priesthood  and  return  on  their  ordination  for 
work  in  their  native  land.  Naturally  the  great 
hour  of  this  college  was  during  the  religious  per- 
secutions under  Elizabeth,  when  it  was  death  to 
be  a  priest  in  England.  Twenty-seven  from  this 
one  small  group  were  executed.  Their  portraits 
hang  along  the  cloisters:  Cadwallader,  Stark, 
Bell,  Walpole,  Weston,  Sutheron, —  each  of  the 


64  Heroic  Spain 

heroic  band  started  from  these  quiet  halls  to  meet 
a  martyr's  death. 

Controversy  is  out  of  date,  I  hope,  to-day.  But 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  fair-mindedness,  and  a 
visit  to  Spain  at  every  step  shows  she  has  not  had 
her  share  of  it  from  English-speaking  peoples. 
With  every  chapter  of  our  guide  book  railing  at 
the  Inquisition,  I  could  not  help  feeling  that  these 
martyred  Englishmen  should  not  be  so  com- 
pletely forgotten.  Not  that  the  tu  quoque  argu- 
ment excuses  persecution  on  either  side.  But  an 
age  should  be  judged  by  its  own  ethics  or  true 
views  of  history  are  impossible.  The  New  Eng- 
landers  who,  two  hundred  years  later  than  Isa- 
bella's institution,  hanged  a  few  Quakers  on  Bos- 
ton Common  were  none  the  less  moral  men;  and 
General  Robert  E.  Lee  fighting  for  slavery  in  the 
nineteenth  century  is  a  man  we  have  a  right  to 
admire.  The  mere  fact  of  the  Inquisition  being 
founded  by  that  magnanimous  woman  called  by 
Bacon  "  an  honor  to  her  sex  and  the  cornerstone 
of  the  greatness  of  Spain  "  should  tell  us  its  mo- 
tives were  sincere.  Her  age  had  not  yet  learned 
the  lesson,  which  we  have  acquired  slowly,  bit  by 
bit  through  experience,  that  political  or  religious 
existence  is  possible  with  divided  factions,  not 
only  possible  but  that  a  nation  is  more  vigorous 
because  of  them.  As  Bishop  Creighton  wisely 
says:  "The  modern  conception  of  free  discus- 


Valladolid  65 

sion  and  free  thought  is  not  so  much  the  result  of 
a  firmer  gasp  of  moral  principles  as  it  is  the  result 
of  the  discovery  that  uniformity  is  not  necessary 
for  the  maintenance  of  political  unity."  Isa- 
bella's age  agreed  that  persecution  was  necessary 
to  preserve  Christianity.  And  since  only  Spain 
was  in  immediate  contact  with  Islam,  and  cen- 
turies of  crusade  against  the  invading  infidel  had 
the  natural  result  of  making  the  Spaniard 
sternly  orthodox,  it  was  there  that  the  Inquisi- 
tion flourished. 

It  dragged  on  for  over  three  centuries,  and 
from  1481  to  1812,  35,000  people  were  burned,1 
these  numbers  being  Richard  Ford's,  to  whom  the 
Inquisition  was  as  a  red  rag  to  a  bull.  The  Ger- 
man scholar  Schack  acknowledges  that  all  the 
Moors  and  heretics  burned  in  Spain  by  the  Holy 

1  Llorente,  a  bitter  assailant  of  the  Inquisition,  gives  the  number  of 
victims  as  31,900.  Llorente  was  traitor  to  his  country  during  the  inva- 
sion of  the  French  and  fled  ignominiously  on  their  defeat,  pensioned 
during  his  later  years  by  the  freemasons  of  Paris;  he  falsified  Basque 
history  to  win  the  corrupt  Godoy's  favour  (von  Ranke's  statement); 
an  ex-priest  he  assisted  in  church  robbery.  Would  Benedict  Arnold  be 
accepted  as  an  authority  on  the  American  Revolution?  The  Encyclo- 
pedia Brittanica,,  even  in  its  ninth  edition,  has  in  its  sketch  on  Spain, 
the  folio  whig  curious  assertion  —  "bigotry  and  fanaticism  which  led 
to  the  destruction  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  victims  at  the  hands  of 
the  Inquisition."  Even  the  political  victims  in  the  Netherlands  under 
the  inexorable  Alba,  who  did  to  death  some  18,000  people,  cannot  swell 
the  number  to  a  fraction  of  this  statement.  And  if  the  Netherlands' 
victims  are  to  be  laid  to  the  door  of  religious  persecution,  then  must  the 
massacres  in  Ireland  of  the  inexorable  Cromwell  come  under  the  same 
heading:  as  an  Englishman  judges  Cromwell  apart  from  his  crimes,  so  a 
Spaniard  sees  more  in  Alva  than  his  felonies.  History  presented  to  us 
in  parallel  columns  would  do  much  toward  giving  us  fairer  views. 


66  Heroic  Spain 

Office  do  not  equal  the  women  witches  burned 
alive  in  Germany  during  the  seventeenth  century 
alone.  In  France,  in  the  one  night  of  St.  Bar- 
tholomew, almost  as  many  victims  fell  as  during 
the  whole  three  hundred  years  of  the  Inquisition. 
Of  England  the  publishing  of  recent  investiga- 
tions makes  it  needless  to  speak;  blood  flowed  in 
torrents  there.  Besides  those  well  known  ones 
who  met  death  under  Mary  Tudor,  the  Catholic 
martyrdoms  give  such  details  as  the  "  Scavenger's 
Daughter,"  that  cramping  circle  of  iron;  "  Little 
Ease,"  where  a  prisoner,  could  not  sit  or  stand  or 
lie  down;  needles  thrust  under  the  nails;  the 
rack-master  of  the  Tower  boasting  he  had  made 
Alexander  Briant  longer  by  a  foot  than  God  had 
made  him;  the  general  custom  of  cutting  down 
the  victim  from  the  gallows  while  still  alive  to 
tear  out  his  heart  and  quarter  him,  —  accounts 
that  put  the  Autos  da  Fe,  in  the  shade.  In  the 
annals  of  Spain  is  not  a  scene  that  equals  the 
blood  curdling  horror  of  the  martyrdom  in  Dor- 
chester, England,  of  Hugh  Green  in  the  year 
1642.1  Yet  an  Englishman,  a  Frenchman,  a 
German,  if  fanaticism  or  cruelty  are  mentioned, 
makes  his  inevitable  trite  reference  to  the  Spanish 

1  Described  by  an  eyewitness,  the  brave  gentlewoman,  Mrs.  Wil- 
loughby.  See:  "English  Martyrs,"  Vol.  I  and  II  of  the  C.  T.  S.  Publica- 
tions: 22  Paternoster  Row:  London.  Dr.  Thomas  Addis  Emmet  in 
"Ireland  under  English  Rule"  (Putnam's  Sons,  N.  Y.  1903)  gives  occur- 
rences equally  terrible. 


Valladolid  67 

Inquisition.  It  has  been  made  the  scape-goat  of 
all  religious  persecution.  Abuse  has  so  fixed  the 
idea  that  it  was  a  barbarous  machine  controlled 
by  contorted  natures  to  whom  bloodshed  was  a 
revelry  that  any  effort  to  place  it  in  a  truer  light 
is  sure  to  be  called  retrogression.  I  am  far  from 
attempting  a  defense  of  this  painful  aberration 
of  the  Christian  mind,  but  what  I  hold  is,  if  a  stu- 
dent went  to  the  records  of  Alcala  and  Simancas, 
open  free  to  all,  not  to  search  out  the  hundred 
mistaken  cases  from  the  ten  thousand  proven 
ones,  the  method  up  to  this,  but,  following  the 
first  law  of  intellectual  work,  investigation  with- 
out preconceived  bias,  if  he  tried  to  understand 
this  phase  of  man's  slow  development  per  error  em 
ad  veritatem,  then  the  thin-lipped,  gleaming-eyed, 
bloodthirsty  Inquisitor  of  the  popular  fancy 
would  be  taken  from  the  pillory  where  he  has 
been  pelted  these  centuries  past,  and  his  mistaken 
sincerity  stand  justified  by  the  conditions  of  his  * 
time. 

The  records  prove  that  the  Holy  Office  was 
used  seldom  against  scholars  but  against  relapsed 
Mohammedans  and  Jews,  false  beati,  sorcerers, 
and  witches.  "  Ningun  liombre  de  merito  cienti- 
fico  fue  quemado  por  la  Inquisition"  is  the  clear  * 
statement  of  one  of  the  greatest  of  living  scholars, 
Menendez  y  Pelayo,  and  he  who  would  cross 
swords  with  that  erudite  champion  must  be  sure 


68  Heroic  Spain 

indeed  of  his  assertions.  Not  one  Spanish  thinker 
or  statesman,  such  as  Bishop  Fisher,  Sir  Thomas 
More,  the  Carthusian  priors,  Houghton,  Web- 
ster, and  Laurence,  the  poet  Robert  Southwell, 
the  scholarly  Edmund  Campion,  and  a  host  of 
others,1  graduates  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  ex- 
ecuted for  their  faith  during  the  hundred  and 
fifty  years  of  religious  persecution  in  England, 
not  one  man  of  like  standing  was  put  to  death  in 
Spain.  Had  he  been,  some  righteous  hater  of 
the  "  ferocious  Inquisitors,"  would  ere  this  have 
produced  his  name  and  works.  Archbishop  Tala- 
vera  was  accused  but  was  finally  justified;  if  the 
poet  Luis  de  Leon  was  imprisoned,  he  was  set  free 
on  examination.  It  was  not  his  own  countrymen 
but  Calvin  in  Geneva,  who  had  the  Spanish 
scholar,  the  Unitarian,  Miguel  Servet  burned 
alive,  and  it  was  the  mild  Melanchthon  who  wrote 
to  the  reformer  saying:  "  The  Church  owes  thee 
gratitude.  I  maintain  that  the  tribunal  has  acted 
in  accordance  with  justice  in  having  put  to  death 
a  blasphemer."  In  Germany  at  that  period  the 
civil  courts  inflicted  capital  punishment  on  sor- 
cery, blasphemy,  and  church  robbery;  had  the 

1  I  do  not  mention  in  this  list  Archbishop  Cranmer  and  his  fellow 
prelates,  Latimer  and  Ridley,  since  having  been  persecutors  them- 
selves they  may  be  said  to  have  reaped  under  Mary  Tudor  what  they 
had  sowed  under  Edward  VI.  They  were  condemned  and  executed  by 
the  laws  which  they  had  made  and  put  in  force  against  Unitarians  and 
Anabaptists. 


Valladolid  69 

same  law  held  in  Spain  the  number  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion executions  would  be  appreciably  lowered. 
Lord  Bacon,  who  was  a  just  and  humane  man, 
mentions  as  a  matter  of  course  that  in  his  time 
the  English  civil  courts  used  torture :  the  Penin- 
sula was  not  ahead  of  its  time  in  this  respect. 

As  for  that  debated  subject  the  effect  on  the 
Spanish  character  of  the  Santo  Oficio,  prejudices 
have  built  up  so  twisted  a  labyrinth  that  the  best 
way  out  for  one  who  would  keep  his  level-headed 
balance  is  to  hold  fast  to  the  thread  of  internal 
evidence.  Unconscious  of  writing  history  for 
the  future,  hence  his  unassailable  veracity,  Cer- 
vantes tells  in  detail  of  the  life  in  court  and 
tavern,  in  the  town  and  on  the  desolate  highways 
after  the  Inquisition  had  flourished  for  more 
than  a  century.  Does  he  portray  a  degraded 
race,  finger  on  lips  whispering,  "  Hush,  or  you 
will  be  overheard  "?  If  the  Spaniard  was  ground 
down  in  fear  and  deceit  why  is  it  that  today,  of 
all  the  peoples  of  the  continent,  he  is  the  most 
independent  in  character?  It  has  been  said  that 
a  burgher  of  Amsterdam  does  not  differ  more 
from  a  Neapolitan,  than  a  Basque  from  an  An- 
dalusian,  yet  in  this  trait  of  sturdy  independence 
all  Spaniards  are  alike;  the  historian  Ticknor 
wrote  during  his  stay  in  Spain,  "  The  lower 
class  is,  I  think,  the  finest  material  I  have 
met  in  Europe  to  make  a  great  and  gener- 


70  Heroic  Spain 

ous  people."  If  under  the  Inquisition  "  every 
intellectual  impulse  was  repressed,"  *  how  dared 
theologians  and  philosophers,  such  as  Vives, 
Isla,  and  Feijoo  boldly  attack  with  their  pens 
superstitions  and  degenerated  religious  customs? 
Is  the  poetry  of  Juan  de  la  Cruz,  Luis  de  Leon 
and  the  prose  of  Teresa,  the  work  of  souls  who 
feared  to  adore  their  God  freely?  And  is  it  not 
undeniable  that  the  two  golden  centuries  of 
Spanish  art  and  literature  flourished  under  this 
bugbear  horror,  this  ff  coco  de  ninos  y  espantajo 
de  bobos"  as  Menendez  y  Pelayo  calls  it? 

Used  chiefly  against  Judaism  and  Islamism, 
occasionally  the  Inquisition  became  the  tool  of  a 
tyrannic  king  for  private  vengeance.  Indeed, 
there  are  some  historians  such  as  von  Ranke, 
Lenormant,  de  Maistre,  who  hold  it  to  have  been 
more  a  royal  than  an  ecclesiastic  instrument,  fos- 
tered by  the  Hapsburgs  to  augment  their  auto- 
cratic rule.2  Certainly  all  confiscated  property 
went  to  the  Crown. 

Man's  slow  development  per  errorem  ad  veri- 
tatem,  slow  indeed  one  may  say,  in  the  face  of 
certain  realities  of  our  own  time.  Happily  the 

1  H.  C.  Lea,  whose  ill-digested  mass  of  facts  torn  from  their  proper 
context  are  as  representative  of  Spain  as  the  accounts  of  a  foreigner 
who    had    studied    only    the    police    reports    of    America,    would    be 
of  us. 

2  '*  L'Inquisition  fut,  d'abord,  plus  politique  que  religieuse,  et  desti- 
nee  a  maintenir  1'Ordre  plut6t  qu'a  defendre  la  foi,"  says  the  Protestant 
historian  Guizot  (Hist.  Mod.  Lect.  II). 


Valladolid  7 1 

generations  of  cant  and  holier-than-thou  are 
passing,  and  we  are  looking  history  more  honestly 
in  the  face.  It  is  dawning  on  us  that  religious 
persecution  in  1492  is  no  more  frightful  than 
slavery  in  1860  or  an  Opium  War  in  1843. 

Modern  Spain  realizes  the  wrong  of  persecu- 
tion, the  farce  of  a  religion  of  love  using  the 
sword,  as  thoroughly  as  does  every  other  civilized 
country.  Outside  the  church  of  St.  Philip  Neri 
in  Cadiz  is  a  tablet  proudly  commemorating  the 
abolition  of  the  Inquisition  within  its  walls  in 
1812. 

To  return  to  less  nettlesome  themes.  The  little 
English  College,  so  interesting  a  memorial  of 
past  history,  a  forgotten  haven  of  refuge  in  Old 
Spain,  must  be  a  peaceful  memory  to  look  back 
on  by  priests  whose  later  lives  are  spent  in  Bir- 
mingham or  London  slums.  The  pleasant  sit- 
ting-room of  each  inmate,  the  recreation  hall  with 
its  theater,  the  library,  with  the  latest  English 
books  jostling  old  Spanish  tomes,  —  all  spoke  of 
contented  full  days.  We  turned  the  parchment 
leaves  where  the  college  records  for  its  three  hun- 
dred years  in  Spain  have  been  kept,  where  each 
student  is  mentioned,  from  the  troubled  first  days 
down  to  the  group  of  ten  who  had  arrived  from 
England  a  week  before  our  visit,  among  them 
a  young  Reginald  Vaughan,  nephew  of  the 
Cardinal. 


72  Heroic  Spain 

/  With  up-to-date  hospital  and  busy  manufac- 
,  tures,  Valladolid  does  not  seem  like  an  ancient 
capital  of  the  Spanish  court.  We  would  read  in 
our  guide  book  that  the  miserable  Juan  II  had 
his  favorite  of  a  lifetime,  Alvaro  de  Luna,  be- 
headed in  the  big  square ;  that  here  Juan's  noble 
daughter  married  Ferdinand  of  Aragon;  and 
that,  seated  on  a  throne  in  the  Plaza  Mayor, 
Charles  V  pardoned  the  remaining  Comuneros, 
the  rebels  who  had  dared  assert  the  federal  prin- 
ciple against  his  centralization  of  government, 
Spain's  last  outcry  before  she  sank  under  the 
blighting  tyranny  of  her  Hapsburg  and  Bourbon 
rulers.  Such  past  happenings  were  interesting, 
but  they  would  have  the  same  meaning  if  read  of 
in  London  or  Boston.  However,  there  were  two 
memories  of  Valladolid  that  were  vivid  enough  to 
haunt  one  as  one  walked  about  its  humdrum 
streets:  they  are  associated  with  the  saddest 
hours  of  two  supreme  men. 

J  No.  7  Calle  de  Cristobal  Colon  is  the  insignifi- 
cant house  where  Isabella's  High  Admiral  died 
in  1506,  in  obscurity  and  neglect,  his  patroness 
dead,  and  Ferdinand  ungrateful.  A  hundred 
years  later,  in  another  small  house,  now  owned 
by  the  government,  Cervantes  lived  in  poverty. 
Unknown  and  undivined  he  walked  these  streets, 
looking  at  the  passers-by  with  his  wise,  tolerant 
eyes.  Fresh,  perhaps,  from  writing  the  mono- 


Valladolid  7  3 

logue  on  the  Golden  Age,  delivered  by  the  Don 
over  a  few  brown  acorns  of  inspiration,  Cervantes 
in  threadbare  cape  went  to  his  humble  scrivener's 
work,  the  golden  time  of  justice  and  kindness 
existing  only  in  his  own  gallant  heart.  It  was  in 
Valladolid  that  the  ladies  of  his  household, 
widowed  sisters,  niece,  his  daughter  and  wife, 
sewed  to  gain  their  daily  bread,  and  as  if  penury 
were  not  enough,  here  they  were  thrown  into 
prison  because  a  young  noble,  wounded  in  a  street 
brawl,  was  carried  into  their  house  to  die. 

Cervantes'  life  reads  like  one  of  the  romantic 
tales  he  loves  to  digress  with  in  his  great  novel, 
when  grandee,  barber  and  priest,  court  lady, 
Eastern  damsel,  and  labrador's  daughter,  gather 
round  the  inn  table  —  the  servants  a  natural  part 
of  the  group  —  in  the  easy  meeting  of  the  classes 
which  is  still  a  reality  in  Spain.  Born  at  Alcala, 
Cervantes'  first  bent  was  toward  literature,  but 
having  gone  to  Rome  in  the  suite  of  a  cardinal, 
in  Italy  he  joined  the  army  against  the  infidel. 
He  fought  at  Lepanto,  where  his  bravery  drew 
on  him  the  notice  of  Don  John  of  Austria,  that 
alluring  young  leader  of  whom  one  of  his  state 
council  wrote,  "  Nature  had  endowed  him  with 
a  cast  of  countenance  so  gay  and  pleasing  that 
there  was  hardly  anyone  whose  good-will  and 
love  he  did  not  immediately  win."  It  makes  a 
pleasant  picture,  the  visit  of  this  high-spirited 


74  Heroic  Spain 

young  hero  to  his  wounded  soldier  in  the  hos- 
pital of  Messina.  Later,  Cervantes  fought  at 
Naples,  at  Tunis,  in  Lombardy,  making  part  of 
his  century's  stirring  history,  and  all  the  while 
storing  his  mind  with  the  culture  of  Italy.  It 
was  when  returning  to  Spain  that  some  Algerian 
pirates  took  him  prisoner.  His  five  years'  cap- 
tivity in  Africa  stand  an  unsurpassed  exhibition 
of  grandeur  of  character,  proving  that  the  highest 
gifts  of  mind  and  heart  go  together  in  perfect 
accord.  Loaded  with  chains,  twice  brought  to 
be  hanged  with  a  rope  around  his  neck,  his 
knightly  spirit  rose  above  all  misery.  There  were 
twenty-five  thousand  wretched  Christians  then 
in  bondage  in  Algiers.  Cervantes  waited  on  the 
sick,  shared  his  food  with  the  more  destitute,  en- 
couraged the  despairing,  —  a  Christian  in  the 
fullest  sense  of  the  word  is  the  testimony  of  a 
Fray  Juan  Gil,  who,  belonging  to  a  brother- 
hood for  the  redemption  of  prisoners,  worked  for 
his  release.  In  this  harsh  school  "  donde  apren- 
dio  a  tener  paclencia  en  las  adversidades  "  —  the 
adversities  that  were  to  follow  him  all  his  life  — 
was  chastened  to  self-effacement  and  a  sublime 
patience  an  ardent  spirit  that  by  nature  chafed 
against  wrong. 

What  wonder  that  the  late  flowering  of  this 
man's  soul,  the  book  written  when  past  middle 
age,  should  be  of  chivalry  all  compact,  a  nobility 


Valladolid  7  5 

of  sentiment  exposed  half  seriously,  half  in  jest! 
What  wonder  that  in  the  midst  of  laughter  the 
voice  breaks  with  tenderness  for  the  lovable  cdba- 
llero  andante!  His  Quixote  is  Cervantes'  own 
unquenchable  spirit.  A  bitter  experience  of  life  l// 
never  deadened  his  faith  in  man  nor  dulled  his 
heroic  gayety.  With  exquisite  humor  he  realized 
the  alien  aspect  of  such  trust  and  love  and  faith 
in  the  disillusioning  realities  of  life,  so  he  veiled 
it  all  under  the  kindly  cloak  of  a  cracked-brained 
knight.  The  wandering  adventures  of  a  fool 
make  the  wisest,  most  human-hearted  book  ever 
written. 

Toward  the  end  of  his  slavery,  when  Cervantes 
passed  into  the  hands  of  the  viceroy  of  Algiers, 
Hassan  Pasha,  his  force  of  character  gained  in- 
fluence over  the  tyrant.  But  he  asked  too  high 
a  ransom  for  the  captive's  family  to  pay.  The 
priest  who  had  watched  the  young  soldier  on  his 
deeds  of  mercy,  worked  indefatigably  for  his  re- 
lease. A  letter  was  sent  to  Philip  II  to  beg  aid 
for  a  soldier  of  Lepanto.  At  length  three  hun- 
dred ducats  were  raised.  Hassan  Pasha  asked 
a  thousand.  Already  was  Cervantes  chained  to 
the  oar  of  a  galley,  bound  for  Constantinople, 
when  at  the  last  hour  Father  Gil,  helped  by 
some  Christian  merchants,  succeeded  in  raising 
five  hundred  ducats,  which  ransom  the  Viceroy 
accepted. 


76  Heroic  Spain 

At  thirty-four  years  of  age,  Cervantes  again 
stepped  on  Spanish  soil.  But  the  world  was  then 
much  as  it  is  now;  years  had  passed  since  Le- 
panto,  —  he  was  forgotten.  His  patron  Don 
John  of  Austria  had  died  in  Flanders  two  years 
before  his  release.  He  joined  the  army  once 
more  and  fought  in  the  expedition  against  the 
Azores;  then  seeing  there  was  no  chance  of  ad- 
vancement, he  returned  to  his  first  career,  that 
of  letters.  His  plays  and  poems  had  small  suc- 
cess: a  pathetic  phrase  in  the  scene  where  the 
cura  burns  Quixote's  books  and  comes  on  an  epic 
by  one,  Cervantes,  "  better  versed  in  poverty  and 
misfortunes  than  in  verses,"  has  deeper  meaning 
when  his  checkered  career  is  known. 

Twenty-five  years  of  obscurity  and  abject  pov- 
erty succeeded  each  other,  his  lot  so  lowly  it  is 
hard  to  trace  his  steps.  Whole  years  remain  a 
blank.  The  brave  heart  never  flagged,  no  bitter- 
ness tinged  his  kindly  tolerance.  This  Castilian 
hidalgo  of  ripe  culture  earned  his  bread  in  the 
humblest  ways.  1588  found  him  in  Seville  as 
commissary  victualer  for  the  Great  Armada. 
Tradition  says  he  visited  La  Mancha,  the 
desert  he  was  to  immortalize,  to  collect  tithes  for 
a  priory  of  St.  John,  and  that  the  villagers  in 
anger  cast  him  into  prison,  where  he  conceived 
the  idea  of  his  novel.  This  child  of  his  wit  he 
hints  to  us  was  born  in  a  jail.  The  sad  years  in 


Valladolid  77 

Valladolid  followed,  and  there  in  1605,  at  fifty- 
eight  years  of  age,  he  published  the  first  part 
of  "  Don  Quixote." 

Its  success  was  immediate.  The  grace  of  the 
style,  the  inimitable  humor,  and  the  underflowing 
current  of  mellow  wisdom,  made  it  from  the 
start,  what  Sainte-Beuve  called  it,  "  the  book  of 
humanity."  However,  its  publication  did  not 
much  better  Cervantes'  fortunes.  He  retired  to 
Madrid,  where  he  lived  on  a  small  pension  from 
the  Archbishop  of  Toledo.  A  French  noble  vis- 
iting Spain  asked  for  the  famous  author,  and  was 
told,  "  He  who  had  made  all  the  world  rich 
was  poor  and  infirm  though  a  soldier  and  a 
gentleman." 

In  1613  appeared  his  "  Novelas  Exemplares," 
a  remarkable  collection  of  tales  which  gave  Scott 
the  idea  of  the  Waverley  novels.  The  second  part 
of  "  Don  Quixote,"  equal  to  the  first  in  vigor  and 
charm,  appeared  when  Cervantes  was  sixty;  "  his 
foot  already  in  the  stirrup,"  he  gives  us  in  a 
preface,  the  moving  description  of  himself.  In 
the  latter  part  of  his  life,  according  to  a  custom 
of  the  time,  he  became  a  tertiary  of  the  Fran- 
ciscan Order,  and  on  his  death  in  1616  they  buried 
him  humbly  in  the  convent  of  nuns  in  Madrid, 
where  his  daughter  was  a  religious.  Ill  fortune 
still  pursued  him,  for  to-day  there  is  no  trace  of 
his  last  resting-place. 


78  Heroic  Spain 

It  is  with  thoughts  of  this  heroic  life  —  this 
Hi  an  lovable  as  his  own  Don,  with  a  gentle  stam- 
mer in  his  speech,  and  the  kindly  wise  look  in  his 
eyes,  his  left  hand  maimed  from  Lepanto,  his 
shoulders  bowed  and  his  chestnut  hair  turned  to 
silver  by  the  ceaseless  calamities  of  life  —  it  is 
with  such  memories  one  looks  down  from  the  high- 
road on  the  small  house  where  he  wrote  his  mas- 
terpiece. Columbus  on  his  deathbed,  and  Cer- 
y antes  in  poverty  writing  "  Quixote  "  —  two  such 
associations  make  a  visit  to  Valladolid  memorable. 


OVIEDO    IN   THE   ASTURIAS 

"  It  is  perfectly  ridiculous  to  pretend  that,  because 
they  dress  the  Madonna  and  saints  in  rich  robes,  the 
Spaniards  are  ignorant  that  a  statue  is  but  a  symbol. 
They  sing  their  faith,  we  whisper  ours,  but  the  words 
have  the  same  meaning,  and  the  same  thought  is  in  the 
mind.  .  .  .  Draw  a  bias  line  enclosing  the  Basque  prov- 
inces, —  Navarre,  Castile,  Aragon,  Catalonia,  and  you 
have  there  old  religious  Spain  as  she  appears  in  history, 
with  a  vivid  and  practical  faith,  an  irreproachable 
clergy,  a  piety  of  the  heart  reflected  in  the  man- 
ners."—  RENE  BAZIN. 

WE  left  Valladolid  toward  evening,  in  order  to 
stop  over  a  night  in  Palencia,  before  going  north 
to  Asturias.  The  cathedral  of  Palencia  is  well 
worth  the  pause,  even  though  the  visit  may  be 
limited  to  a  night  in  the  Continental  Inn  and  a 
hasty  daybreak  visit  to  the  church;  the  small 
cities  of  central  Spain  are  of  so  individual  a  char- 
acter that  each  stamps  itself  separately  and  indel- 
ibly on  the  memory. 

The  dawn  was  just  breaking  on  a  raw,  rainy 
morning  when  we  walked  through  the  silent 
streets  of  the  town.  In  spite  of  the  early  hour, 
near  each  of  the  water  fountains  stood  a  long  row 
of  antique-shaped  jars,  some  of  red  clay,  some 


8o  Heroic  Spain 

like  old  silver.  For  each  housewife  places  her  jar 
in  line,  and  when  the  drinking  water  is  turned  on, 
each  fills  her  crock  in  turn,  according  as  it  was 
put  in  the  row.  At  the  biblical  wells  of  Palestine 
the  Syrian  women  to-day  use  ugly,  square  Rocke- 
feller oil  cans,  but  happily  conservative  Spain  is 
not  partial  to  innovations.  It  was  on  this  early 
morning  walk  that  I  first  noticed  the  white  palm 
leaves,  some  six  feet  in  length,  fastened  to  the  bal- 
conies or  above  a  window.  One  finds  them  all 
over  the  country.  They  are  from  the  palm  forests 
of  Elche  in  the  south,  and  each  Easter  new  ones 
are  blessed  and  hung  out  on  the  houses,  some  say 
to  guard  against  lightning.  Later,  in  Madrid, 
we  saw  one  decorating  the  King's  palace. 

The  Cathedral  of  Palencia  is  of  the  same  tawny 
yellow  as  the  plains  about  it.  The  east  end  is 
early  Gothic,  the  western  part  of  a  later,  weaker 
period.  Like  Salisbury  it  has  the  uncommon 
feature  of  two  sets  of  transepts;  the  clearstory 
is  carried  round  the  church,  unbroken  by  rose 
windows  at  the  west  or  transept  ends.  The  in- 
terior in  the  dim  light  of  a  rainy  October  morning 
was  picturesque  past  description.  There  are 
times  when  the  chances  of  travel  bring  one  to  a 
spot  at  just  its  perfect  hour.  Thus  we  saw  this 
church  in  a  moment  of  such  exquisite  half  light 
and  quietude  that  its  memory  is  a  possession  for 
life.  Behind  the  High  Altar  rose  an  isolated 


Oviedo  in  the  Asturias          81 

chapel,  set  detached  in  the  midst  of  the  ambula- 
tory, and  through  its  iron  rejas  were  seen  the 
blurred  glimmer  of  candles,  the  veiled  kneeling 
figures  of  the  people,  an  aged  white-haired  priest 
at  the  Altar ;  high  upon  the  wall  the  coffin  of  the 
ancient  Queen  Urraca.  The  effect  was  indescrib- 
able,— austere,  ascetic,  yet  with  a  passionate 
glamour  essentially  Spanish.  A  masterpiece 
could  an  artist  make  of  this  detached  chapel, 
lighted  for  divine  service  each  day  at  dawn  with 
such  unconscious  naturalness. 

Architects  may  say  that  Spanish  cathedrals  are 
exaggerated  and  overloaded,  that  they  lack  the 
restraint  and  purity  of  line  of  Chartres,  Amiens, 
and  the  Isle  de  France  churches  which  are  the 
world's  best  Gothic.  All  this  may  well  be  true, 
yet  Spain  can  smile  securely  at  criticism.  She 
has  a  soul  in  her  places  of  worship,  a  soaring  exal- 
tation of  the  imagination  that  imparts  the  assur- 
ance of  a  living  faith.  Firmly  and  ardently 
she  believes  in  Jesus  Christ,  her  Redeemer, 
and  with  all  her  lofty  intensity  she  prostrates  her- 
self  in  worship. 

We  wandered  round  the  dusky  aisles,  decipher- 
ing tombs,  some  of  whose  effigies  held  their  arms 
raised  in  prayer,  —  only  a  Spaniard  could  endure 
to  look  even  at  such  a  tiring  attitude!  But  the 
time  for  loitering  was  limited.  The  transept 
clock,  a  knight,  a  Moor,  and  a  lion,  sounded  the 


82  Heroic  Spain 

warning  we  must  heed  if  we  were  to  catch  the 
early  train  for  the  North.  The  thoughtful  inn- 
keeper had  saved  us  some  precious  minutes  by 
sending  the  hotel  omnibus  to  wait  outside  the 
Cathedral,  and  we  rattled  —  in  its  literal  sense  — 
to  the  distant  station.  The  city  was  at  last  fully 
awake,  and  each  water  jar  had  now  an  owner ;  one 
by  one  they  followed  each  other  at  the  pump,  with 
pleasant  greetings  and  chatter. 

Then  again  stretched  the  tawny  plains.  The 
fields  of  Leon  were  tractless  wastes  of  mud  from 
the  rain  of  the  past  weeks.  Seen  from  the  car 
window,  each  village  on  the  truncated  mountain 
was  the  exact  copy  of  its  neighbor,  the  same  mo- 
notonous note  of  color  in  adobe  wall  and  denuded 
steppe.  It  was  in  vain  to  look  for  some  distinc- 
tion to  mark  one  group  of  mud  houses,  called 
Paredes  de  Nava,  birthplace  of  Spain's  best 
sculptor  Berruguete,  from  a  similar  mud-em- 
blocked  place  called  Cisneros,  feudal  home  of  Car- 
dinal Ximenez's  family;  the  imagination  had  to 
supply  the  difference. 

Every  one  must  come  prepared  for  Spanish 
trains  to  go  at  a  leisurely  pace  —  about  fifteen 
miles  an  hour  is  the  average  of  the  express  route. 
From  Palencia  to  Oviedo  was  a  twelve-hour  trip, 
and  the  distance  covered  was  a  hundred  and  sixty 
miles.  Of  course  one  crossed  the  Cantabrian 
mountains,  the  continuation  of  the  Pyrenees 


Oviedo  in  the  Asturias          83 

along  the  northern  coast,  and  they  are  no  slight 
barrier  since  they  sometimes  rise  to  a  height  of 
8,000  feet. 

We  passed  the  city  of  Leon  toward  noon,  when 
there  came  a  respite  from  the  dull  treeless  plain, 
for,  beyond  the  town  stretched  a  thinly-wooded 
district  which  gave  the  first  reminder  since  leaving 
the  Basque  valleys  that  the  season  still  was 
autumn.  After  central  Spain,  the  bleak  hills 
that  now  began  seemed  positively  beautiful,  —  so 
many  pleasures  are  relative. 

Slowly  the  train  climbed  the  mountain  wall  that 
from  earliest  times  has  protected  the  Asturian 
principality  from  the  invader.  Near  the  summit, 
emerging  from  a  tunnel  several  miles  long,  we 
looked  out  over  a  glorious  panorama,  the  beauty 
not  being  relative  this  time,  but  as  truly  magni- 
ficent as  some  of  Switzerland's  show  views.  The 
storm  had  covered  the  peaks  with  freshest  snow, 
the  sky  was  a  frosty  dark  blue,  mountain  rose  be- 
hind mountain  for  miles,  the  white  road  was  flung 
a  sinuous  ribbon  round  the  folds  of  the  hills;  be- 
low lay  fertile  valleys  of  greenest  grass  with 
greenest  trees  and  happy  nestling  farms.  The 
secure  mountain  wall  gave  the  Asturian  courage 
to  build  a  home  wherever  his  whim  chose.  He 
was  not  forced  like  the  Castilian  by  centuries  of 
Moorish  inroads  to  herd  in  a  compact  town. 

As  the  puffing  train  waited  for  breathing  space 


84  Heroic  Spain 

on  the  crest  of  the  pass,  a  group  of  peasants 
boarded  it.  They  wore  the  white  wooden  clogs  of 
the  province  that  differ  from  ordinary  clogs  by 
having  stilts,  a  couple  of  inches  high,  to  lift  them 
above  the  mud;  and  they  brought  with  them,  on 
a  sledge,  as  wheels  are  of  no  use  up  these  steep 
hills,  an  antique  curiosity  of  a  trunk.  We  began 
to  hope  that  old  costumes  and  customs  still  held 
in  this  isolated  corner  of  the  world,  though  the 
engineering  qf  the  road  in  the  descent  was  dis- 
turbingly up-to-date,  —  a  series  of  loops,  cuts, 
and  sharp  turns ;  sometimes  three  parallel  lines  of 
rail  over  which  we  were  to  pass  lay  one  below  the 
other,  sometimes  directly  across  the  valley  we  saw 
our  trail ;  a  distance  of  twenty-six  miles  is  covered 
where  a  crow  would  fly  seven. 

The  principality  of  Asturias  has  given  its  name 
to  the  heir  apparent  of  the  Spanish  crown  since 
the  14th  century,  when  a  daughter  of  the  Duke  of 
Lancaster  married  the  Spanish  king's  eldest  son, 
and  her  father  claimed  for  her  a  title  equal  to  that 
of  Prince  of  Wales  to  the  English  throne.  The 
connection  by  marriage  between  Spain  and  Eng- 
land has  been  a  frequent  one.  It  began  in  the 
12th  century,  when  Henry  II's  daughter  married 
Alfonso  VIII  of  Castile:  later  the  Plantagenet 
Edward  I  had  for  wife  a  Spanish  infanta.  From 
the  two  daughters  of  Pedro  the  Cruel,  who  mar- 
ried into  the  English  royal  family,  on  one  side  de- 


Oviedo  in  the  Asturias          85 

scended  Henry  VIII,  from  the  other,  by  a  mar- 
riage back  again  in  Spain,  sprang  Isabella  the 
Catholic.  After  the  ill-fated  union  of  Isabella's 
daughter  with  Henry  VIII  and  that  of  Mary 
Tudor  and  Philip  II,  connection  by  marriage  be- 
tween Spain  and  England  ceased  for  centuries. 
To-day,  as  all  the  world  knows,  the  young  queen 
of  Spain,  Dona  Victoria,  with  the  same  blonde  hair 
as  Isabella,  is  an  Englishwoman,  and  a  rosy  little 
prince  bears  the  title  of  these  distant  mountains. 

It  is  a  fitting  title  for  the  heir  to  the  throne, 
since  this  province  is  the  cradle  of  Spanish  nation- 
ality,  and  never  was  vassal  to  Roman  or  Moor. 
The  people  are  a  mixture  of  the  aboriginal  Iberi- 
ans and  the  Visigoths  who  were  here  finally 
merged  in  one  people  and  here. reconstructed  the 
Spanish  monarchy.  So  proud  is  an  Asturian  of 
his  origin  that  he  thinks,  like  the  Basques,  that 
his  mere  birth  confers  nobility;  every  native  of 
the  province  is  an  hidalgo.  Did  not  the  Asturian 
lady,  the  duenna  of  the  Duchess,  remark  to  Don 
Quixote  that  her  husband  was  hidalgo  como  el 
Rey  porque  era  montanes? 

When  in  711  the  last  of  the  Gothic  kings,  Rod- 
erick, was  defeated  by  the  Moors  who  had  lately 
crossed  from  Africa,  a  remnant  of  the  Christian 
army  took  refuge  in  these  northern  mountains. 
At  Cavadonga,  an  historic  defeat  was  inflicted  on 
the  Moslem  army  in  718,  by  Pelayo,  Spam's  first 


86  Heroic  Spain 

king,  chosen  leader  because  he  was  the  bravest  of 
the  people.  The  Moorish  chronicle,  too  close  to 
the  struggle  to  see  its  vital  issues,  speaks  of  "  one 
Belay,  a  contemptible  barbarian  who  roused  the 
people  of  Asturish." 

Without  Cavadonga  the  face  of  Europe  had 
been  changed.  Had  not  the  Mussulmans  from 
Africa  met  this  repulse,  they  had  pushed  on  be- 
yond the  Pyrenees  before  the  Franks  were  strong 
enough  to  withstand  them.  Often  rose  this 
thought  when  reading  the  sentimental  regrets  for 
the  Moors  in  Spain  found  in  guide  books  and  his- 
tories. Had  Spain  not  warred  for  eight  hundred 
years  against  the  invader,  had  she  not  endured 
with  such  Spartan  courage  the  insecurity  of  life 
and  property  caused  by  ceaseless  forays  from  the 
south,  European  civilization  had  been  put  back 
for  centuries.  Like  most  virile  nations,  she  has 
the  defect  of  her  qualities,  and  when  the  final  vic- 
tory was  hers  she  went  too  far.  But  this  should 
not  blind  us  to  the  nobility  of  the  Reconquista. 

Within  reach  of  Cavadonga,  sacred  to  every 
Spaniard  as  the  cradle  of  his  race  and  religion,  I 
could  not  help  asking  the  cause  of  the  ceaseless 
regret  for  the  Moor.  A  lover  of  the  picturesque, 
like  Washington  Irving,  has  a  right  to  gloss  over 
the  days  of  the  Alhambra,  but  it  seems  strange 
for  serious  history  to  hold  up  the  Mohammedan 
in  Spain  as  a  model  of  cleanliness,  industry,  and 


Oviedo  in  the  Asturias          87 

tolerance  in  contrast  to  the  Christian,  in  face  of 
the  centuries  of  piracy  by  sea,  the  barbarity  of 
African  prisons  where  thousands  of  Spaniards  lan- 
guished in  chains,  and  also — a  thought  that  often 
came  to  me  when  walking  through  the  filthy,  nar- 
row streets  in  Moslem  countries  —  if  the  Moor  in 
Spain  is  to  be  so  regretted,  why  are  not  the  north- 
ern cities  of  Africa  models  for  modern  Christians 
to  emulate?  The  Moor  came  from  them,  and 
many  of  his  race  left  Spain  to  return  to  them.  I 
would  not  belittle  the  Arab  civilization  in  the 
Peninsula,  for  under  the  Ommiade  dynasty,  Cor- 
dova reached  a  distinguished  height  of  culture, 
but  what  I  object  to  is  the  partisan  spirit  that 
places  Moors  on  one  side  to  be  praised  and  ex- 
tenuated, and  Spanish  Christians  on  the  other  to 
be  condemned.  Facts  are  so  distorted  that  many 
think  the  re-conquest  of  Andalusia  meant  the 
substitution  of  backward  ignorance  for  an  en- 
lightened rule,  whereas  the  Moors  themselves, 
long  before  the  coming  of  their  northern  con- 
querors, had  destroyed  their  own  higher  civiliza- 
tion. The  flower  of  their  culture  (always  an  ex- 
otic, for  Islamism  as  hitherto  interpreted  is  in- 
capable of  strengthening  it)  was  withered  before 
Alfonzo  VI  and  the  Cid  had  set  foot  further 
south  than  Toledo. 

Under  the  Ommiade  caliphs,  for  about  five 
generations,  life  probably  resembled  the  golden 


88  Heroic  Spain 

picture  drawn  for  us  as  typical  of  Moorish  sway. 
A  few  able  rulers  disguised  the  fact  that  the  gov- 
ernment was  never  anything  else  but  a  despotism. 
This  siglo  de  oro  was  well  over  by  1030.  Some 
barbarous  warrior  tribes,  from  Africa,  the  Almo- 
ravides,  swept  away  the  feeble  remains  of  Om- 
miade  rule,  to  be  in  their  turn  routed  by  other 
African  invaders,  the  fanatic  Almohades. 
These  last  persecuted  Averroes  as  holding  views 
too  liberal  for  a  true  Mohammedan,  and  the 
scholar  died  in  misery  and  exile,  just  as  in  the 
same  century  the  remarkable  Spanish- Jew,  Mai- 
monides,  was  accused  of  teaching  atheism  by  his 
fellow  Israelites.  Rejected  by  his  own  people, 
the  fame  of  Averroes  came  later  through  his 
study  by  European  Schoolmen.  His  teachings, 
like  most  of  what  is  of  value  in  Arab  learning, 
was  of  Greek  origin,  and  had  reached  him  by 
way  of  Persia,  which  never  wholly  conformed  to 
the  set  tenets  of  Islam.  Why  do  the  anti- Span- 
ish historians  never  mention  that  in  the  same  era 
in  which  Averroes,  the  philosopher,  was  perse- 
cuted by  his  fellow-believers,  a  college  of  trans- 
lators under  the  patronage  of  the  Archbishop 
Raimundo  of  Toledo,  from  1130  to  1150,  put  into 
Latin  the  most  scientific  works  of  the  Moors? 

Mohammedan  civilization  in  Spain,  from  de- 
cay within,  was  completely  disintegrated  by  1275. 
The  caliphs  of  Granada  led  the  lives  of  weak 


Oviedo  in  the  Asturias          89 

voluptuaries,  artistic  but  decadent;  no  rose- 
colored  romancing  can  veil  their  essential  decline. 
Isabella's  court,  traveling  with  its  university, 
with  the  learned  Peter  Martyr  instructing  the 
young  nobles  in  Renaissance  lore,  so  that  a  son  of 
the  Duke  of  Alva,  and  a  cousin  of  the  King  are 
to  be  found  among  the  lecturers  of  Salamanca, 
presents  a  noble  contrast.  When  the  Recon- 
quista  was  achieved,  and  after  three  thousand 
seven  hundred  battles,  the  Spaniard  was  again 
master  in  his  own  land,  grievous  mistakes  were 
made,  until  finally,  in  1609,  in  a  panic  of  fear 
that  the  corsairs  of  Africa  were  uniting  with 
their  co-religionists  along  the  Spanish  coasts,  the 
Moriscos  were  expelled.  Spain  inflicted  this 
blow  on  herself  at  an  ill  moment,  since  already 
from  the  enormous  emigration  to  the  New 
World,  her  crying  need  was  population.  But 
this  act  of  bad  government  whereby  she  threw 
away  over  half  a  million  of  her  inhabitants  (al- 
ways remember,  however,  far  more  Moorish 
blood  remained  than  was  lost,  for  nine  centuries 
of  occupation  had  well  infiltered  it  through  the 
southern  provinces)  did  not  drive  out  the  intel- 
lectual and  moral  backbone  of  the  land  as  we  are 
given  to  understand.  The  Moors  of  Isabella's 
day  were  not  the  liberal-minded,  cultivated 
people  they  had  been  under  the  Ommiade  ca- 
liphs four  centuries  earlier,  and  the  persecuted 


go  Heroic  Spain 

Moriscos  of  Philip  Ill's  time  were  far  lower  in 
standing.  Also  it  cannot  be  questioned  that 
Valencia,  the  province  that  expelled  them,  whose 
rich  soil  to-day  supports  a  crowded  population, 
quickly  filled  up,  and  soon  showed  with  its  irri- 
gation the  same  industry  that  seemed  peculiar  to 
the  Moors.  It  was  central  Spain,  eminently  "  old 
Christian,"  that  when  its  people  flocked  as  ad- 
venturers to  America,  could  offer  neither  fertile 
soil  nor  inviting  climate  to  lure  new  settlers.  The 
quotations  usually  cited  to  prove  that  Valencia 
was  irremediably  devastated  by  the  Expulsion 
are  taken  from  men  who  wrote  within  a  few  years 
of  the  disaster;  it  would  be  an  easy  matter,  fol- 
lowing the  same  sophistry  to  quote  aspects  of 
our  South  a  generation  ago  that  could  make  the 
Civil  War  appear  an  irremediable  blight. 

Seeking  for  the  cause  of  the  tendency  to  over- 
rate the  Moor  at  the  expense  of  his  hereditary 
enemy,  it  seems  to  me  it  is  to  be  traced  to  that 
period  of  rancor,  the  Invincible  Armada,  when 
religious  and  political  passions  ran  so  high  that  it 
was  forgotten  that  the  hated  Spaniard  was  before 
all  else  a  Christian,  and  on  his  heroic  struggle  for 
the  Cross  had  hung  the  civilization  of  Europe. 

The  capital  of  the  Asturian  province  is  Oviedo. 
Alfonso  II,  the  eighth  king  that  followed  Pelayo, 
made  it  his  chief  city,  but  in  spite  of  its  antiquity 
it  is  a  disappointing  town.  I  had  pictured  an  un- 


Oviedo  in  the  Asturias          91 

spoiled  bit  of  the  past,  locked  in  as  it  is  by  moun- 
tains whose  valleys  reach  to  the  city  gates,  with 
curiously-named  saints  still  serving  as  titulars, 
with  the  oldest  remains  of  Christian  architecture 
in  the  Peninsula.  But  the  reality  is  a  smug,  com- 
monplace, successful  little  city  of  slight  local  -^ 
color.  The  mansions  are  Renaissance,  not  medi- 
aeval; if  you  stumble  on  an  ancient  street  it  soon 
brings  you  to  a  straight  new  boulevard.  Children 
in  English  clothes  and  ladies  dressed  like  Paris- 
ians walk  in  the  park  facing  a  line  of  pretentious 
apartment  houses.  I  asked  in  the  shops  for  pic- 
tures of  the  Camera  Santa.  They  could  only  give 
me  postcards  of  the  model  prison  and  the  model  in- 
sane asylum.  Sleepy  little  Palencia,  with  its  rows 
of  classic  water  jars  waiting  —  time  no  considera- 
tion —  till  the  water  was  turned  on  in  the  foun- 
tains, it  seemed  hardly  possible  we  had  left  it  only 
that  morning.  The  remote  old  world  may  be 
found  in  central  Spain,  but  as  this  is  the  land  of 
anomalies,  the  mountain  provinces  of  the  north 
are  busy  to-day  with  mines  and  commerce.  It  re- 
mains but  a  question  of  time  for  Bilbao,  Santan- 
der,  Gijon,  Corufia,  and  Vigo,  the  northern  har- 
bors, to  become  commercial  centers.  They  are/ 
awake  at  last  and  keen  to  enter  the  struggle. 

This  industrial  tendency  is  what  we  agree  in 
calling  progress,  and  Spain  has  been  censured  for 
her  backwardness  in  entering  the  world's  compe- 


92  Heroic  Spain 

tition,  so  it  is  not  justifiable  to  regret  the  unam- 
bitious past.  But  who  can  be  consistent  in  the 
home  of  el  ingenioso  hidalgo!  From  the  moment 
of  entering  Spain  till  we  left  I  leaned  now  to  one 
side,  now  to  the  other,  glad  and  proud  one  day  to 
see  her  new  industries,  a  model  hospital  or  asylum, 
and  scoffing  the  next,  at  a  hideous  new  boulevard 
that  had  relieved  a  congested  district.  This  land 
of  racy  types  and  vigorous  humanity  may  be 
doomed  to  have  factory  chimneys  belching  smoke, 
to  have  lawless  mobs  of  socialists  and  pitiful  slums 
in  cities  where  now  is  frugal  poverty,  where  a  beg- 
gar lives  contentedly  next  door  to  a  prince,  be- 
cause he  feels  the  prince  recognizes  him  as  his  fel- 
low countryman  and  fellow  Christian:  progress 
and  wealth  are  bought  with  a  price.  Oviedo,  just 
entering  the  competition,  and  fast  sweeping  away 
its  picturesque  past,  made  me  glad  to  be  in  time  to 
see  something  of  the  old  ways  of  Spain. 

The  lion  of  the  city,  the  Cathedral,  adds  to  this 
inconsistent  feeling  of  disappointment.  It  is  the 
only  cathedral  of  the  twenty  and  more  we  were  to 
see  that  has  removed  the  choir  from  the  nave  and 
placed  pews  down  the  center  of  the  church.  At 
Burgos  the  heavy  blocking  mass  of  the  coro  in  the 
nave  had  startled  and  bewildered  me,  but  soon  I 
grew  so  accustomed  to  this  Spanish  usage  that  a 
church  without  it  seemed  incomplete.  Oviedo  has 
modernized  its  side  chapels,  recklessly  sweeping 


Oviedo  in  the  Asturias         93 

away  carvings  and  sarcophagi.  It  thought  the 
tombs  of  Pelayo's  successors,  the  early  kings, 
were  cluttering  rubbish,  so  a  good  plain  stone, 
easy  to  decipher,  has  been  put  up  in  place  of  the 
ancient  memorials! 

The  Cathedral  is  perpendicular  Gothic  of  the 
14th  century.  The  west  facade  has  a  spacious 
portico,  whose  effect,  however,  is  lessened  by  the 
church  being  set  so  that  you  descend  to  it  from 
the  street.  On  one  side  of  the  portico  rises  the 
tower,  bold  and  graceful,  showing  from  its  base 
to  its  open-lace  stone  turret  an  easy  gradation  of 
styles.  This  is  the  tower  that  runs  like  an  echo 
through  a  powerful  modern  novel  set  in  Oviedo, 
"  La  Regenta,"  by  Leopoldo  Alas.  "Poema  ro- 
mdntica  de  piedra"  he  calls  it,  "  delicado  himno 
de  dulces  line  as  de  belleza  muda"  Out  of  the 
south  transept  open  cloisters  that  made,  the  first 
day  of  our  visit,  a  charming  picture  in  the  sun- 
shine after  the  weeks  of  cold  rain;  the  red  pen- 
dants of  the  fuschia  bushes  caught  the  long- 
absent  warmth  with  palpable  enjoyment.  The 
shafts  of  the  pillars  here  were  oval  shaped,  not 
a  wholly  successful  change,  as  in  profile  view  they 
appeared  unsymmetrical.  Out  of  this  south  tran- 
sept also  opens  the  gem  of  the  church,  the  Ca- 
mera Santa,  which  has  escaped  the  general  reno- 
vation as  being  too  closely  bound  to  the  historical 
and  religious  past  of  Spain  to  be  tampered  with. 


94  Heroic  Spain 

Alfonso  el  Casio  in  802  built  this  shrine,  raised 
twenty  feet  from  the  church  pavement  to  pre- 
serve it  from  damp.  A  small  room  with  apostle- 
figures  serving  as  caryatids  leads  to  the  sanctum 
sanctorum  where  the  famous  relics  are  kept. 
They  were  brought  here  in  a  Byzantine  chest 
from  Toledo  when  the  Moors  conquered  that  city, 
and  probably  there  are  few  collections  of  old  jew- 
elers' work  equal  to  them.  Here  is  kept  the  cross 
Pelayo  carried  as  a  standard  at  the  battle  of 
Cavadonga  more  than  eleven  hundred  years  be- 
fore. Few  can  help  feeling  in  Spain  the  charm 
of  continuous  tradition.  Never  were  her  treas-  \ 
ures  scattered  by  revolution;  that  this  was 
Pelayo's  very  cross  is  not  problematic  but  a  fact 
assured  by  unbroken  record. 

A  printed  sheet  describing  the  sacred  objects 
in  the  Camera  Santa  is  given  to  each  visitor.  It 
would  be  easy  to  turn  many  of  these  relics  of  a 
more  naive,  less  logical  age,  into  ridicule.  To 
one,  however,  who  tries  to  see  a  new  land  with 
comprehending  sympathy,  to  which  alone  it  will 
reveal  itself,  these  relics,  brought  back  from  the 
Holy  Land  by  crusading  knight  or  warrior 
bishop,  are  tender  memorials  of  a  great  hour  of 
Christian  enthusiasm.  One  of  the  strongest 
traits  of  Spanish  character  is  reverence  for  all 
links  that  bind  it  to  its  past,  especially  its  reli-  ' 
gious  past,  and  happy  it  is  for  such  old  treasures 


Oviedo  in  the  Asturias          95 

that  they  find  shelter  in  a  land  where  a  Camera 
Santa  is  still  a  shrine,  not  a  museum.  "iTriste 
de  la  nation  que  deja  caer  en  el  olvido  las  ideas 
y  concepciones  de  sus  majores!  " 

If  Oviedo  itself  is  disappointing  to  those  who 
seek  the  antiquely  picturesque,  the  countryside 
that  encircles  it  is  doubly  lovely.  On  a  bright 
Sunday  morning  we  walked  out  a  few  miles  to 
see  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  de  Naranco, 
built  by  Ramiro  I  back  in  850.  It  was  a  steep 
scramble  up  the  mountain  side,  for  the  road  was 
like  a  torrent  bed.  Peasants  on  donkeys  passed, 
on  their  way  into  the  town  for  their  day  of  rest, 
some  with  brightly  decorated  bagpipes  groaning 
out  their  merriment.  To  avoid  the  sea  of  mud 
in  the  high  road,  we  took  short-cuts  up  the  hills, 
following  a  peasant  who,  seated  sideways  on  her 
donkey,  balanced  on  her  head  a  huge  loaf  of 
bread.  And  her  bread,  round  and  flattened  in 
the  center,  was  the  exact  shape  of  the  loaves  chis- 
eled, centuries  before,  in  the  Bible  scenes  of  Bur- 
gos choir-stalls.  The  old  woman  smiled  and 
nodded  as  she  smoked  her  cigarettes,  watching  us 
pick  our  way  with  difficulty  where  the  tiny  hoofs 
of  her  ass  trod  lightly.  What  cares  a  Spanish 
peasant  whether  the  road  is  good  or  bad  when  he 
has  a  sure-footed  donkey  to  carry  him! 

At  length  we  reached  the  small  church  built  by 
the  third  king  after  Pelayo.  It  is  a  room  thirty- 


96  Heroic  Spain 

six  by  fifteen  feet,  with  a  chamber  at  the  east  and 
another  at  the  west  end.  Along  the  north  and 
south  walls  are  pillars  from  which  spring  the  ar- 
cades, and  these  pillars  and  arches  make  the  sup- 
port of  the  building;  the  walls  merely  fill  in. 
This  is  the  earliest  example  in  Spain  of  the  separ- 
ation into  active  and  passive  members;  whether 
the  idea  came  from  Lombardy  or  was  of  native 
birth  is  not  known. 

We  climbed  still  higher  up  the  red  sandstone 
hill,  among  gnarled  old  chestnut  trees,  to  where 
the  ancient  church  of  San  Miguel  de  Lino 
stands.  The  oriental  windows,  being  in  Spain, 
would  naturally  be  thought  of  Moorish  origin, 
but  their  Eastern  source  antedates  the  Moor. 
They  came  from  the  Byzantine  East,  by  way  of 
the  Bosphorus,  not  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar. 
They  are  reminiscent  of  the  time  when  the  Goths, 
before  their  invasion  of  Spain,  lived  around  the 
Danube. 

On  July  25th  the  scene  near  these  two  churches 
is  a  striking  one.  The  village  of  Naranco  is 
emptied  of  its  folk  that  pious  morn,  as  the  peas- 
ants, in  the  same  tranquil  beauty  as  in  old  Greece, 
lead  their  garlanded  oxen  and  heifers  up  to  San 
Miguel.  So  unchanging  are  Spain's  customs 
that  the  festival  is  paid  for  out  of  the  spoils  taken 
at  the  battle  of  Clavigo  (in  846) ,  where  tradition 
says  the  loved  patron  of  the  Peninsula,  the 


Oviedo  in  the  Asturias          97 

Apostle  St.  James,  "  el  de  Espana"  came  to 
fight  in  person.  We  were  not  so  fortunate  as  to 
see  this  feast  of  Sant  Jago,  but  we  stumbled  on  a 
beautiful  minor  scene.  As  we  returned  by  Santa 
Maria  de  Naranco,  a  group  of  peasants  stood 
round  the  priest  on  the  raised  porch  of  the  church, 
the  center  of  interest  being  a  baby  three  days 
old.  Few  women  can  resist  a  baptism,  that  sol- 
emn first  step  in  a  Christian  life,  so  we  drew  near. 
The  father  was  a  superb-looking  youth  of  about 
twenty,  in  a  black  velvet  jacket;  his  crisp  curly 
hair,  his  glow  of  color,  and  the  proud  outline  of 
his  features  made  him  fit  subject  for  the  artist. 
The  godmother,  his  sister  it  seemed  from  the 
resemblance,  was  a  buxom  girl  in  Sunday  finery; 
the  godfather  was  a  younger  brother  of  fourteen, 
who  awkwardly  held  the  precious  burden.  The 
old  priest  wore  the  wooden  clogs  of  the  people 
and  made  a  terrible  racket  with  every  step.  From 
the  porch  he  led  the  way  into  the  church,  and  after 
pausing  half  way  to  read  prayers,  —  a  scuffling 
old  sexton  held  aslant  a  dripping  candle,  —  they 
came  to  the  baptismal  font  in  the  raised  chamber 
at  the  west  end.  The  young  father  went  forward 
to  the  altar  steps  to  kneel  alone,  and  the  god- 
father, with  great  earnestness,  gave  the  responses. 
Then  the  cura  poured  the  blessed  water  on  the 
tiny  head,  and  to  prevent  cold  wiped  it  gently. 
The  ceremony  over,  his  wooden  shoes  clattered 


98  Heroic  Spain 

into  the  sacristy,  the  sexton  blew  out  the  candle, 
and  the  agile  godmother  claimed  her  woman's 
prerogative  and  tossed  and  crooned  to  the  young 
Christian  as  she  tied  ribbons  and  cap-strings. 
The  two  strangers  who  had  witnessed  this  moving 
little  scene  under  the  primitive  carving  of  the 
Visigothic  church  wished  to  leave  a  good-luck 
piece  for  the  small  Manuela.  But  when  they  put 
the  coin  into  the  hand  of  the  young  parent  who 
still  knelt  before  the  altar,  he  returned  it  with 
a  beautiful,  flashing  smile.  In  halting  Spanish 
they  explained  their  good-luck  wishes,  and  in  that 
spirit  the  gift  was  accepted* 

Seen  from  Naranco,  the  red-tiled  roofs  of 
Oviedo  encircled  by  far-stretching  mountains 
made  a  romantic  enough  scene.  Seated  on  the 
trunk  of  a  chestnut  tree  we  watched  the  sun  set 
over  the  exquisite  valley.  Immediately  round  us 
on  the  hillside  had  once  stood  the  city  of  King 
Ramiro,  obliterated  as  completely  as  the  earlier 
Phoenician  and  Roman  settlements  in  Spain. 
The  dead  city  where  we  sat,  the  town  below,  dis- 
tant from  the  bustle  of  the  world  yet  fast  ap- 
proaching it,  the  glow  and  sweep  of  the  sunset, 
—  it  is  at  moments  such  as  these  that  the  mind 
enlarges  to  a  swift  comprehension,  untranslatable 
in  speech,  of  the  passing  breath  the  ages  are. 
The  mountains  change,  the  rivers  capriciously 
leave  their  beds,  —  especially  in  Spain,  where 


Oviedo  in  the  Asturias          99 

bridges  stand  lost  in  green  meadows  and  are  left 
undisturbed,  for  does  not  a  proverb  say,  "  Rivers 
return  to  forsaken  beds  after  a  thousand  years?  " 
And  Spain  has  patience  to  wait!  Whether  it 
was  the  new-born  child,  the  forgotten  city,  the 
up-to-date  town  below,  or  just  the  sun  setting 
over  that  illimitable  expanse  of  mountains,  Santa 
Maria  Naranco  gave  one  an  hour  of  the  higher 
philosophy. 

In  the  after-glow  we  walked  back  to  Oviedo. 
Along  the  way  the  returning  country  people 
greeted  us  with  ease  and  dignity:  "  Vaya  Usted 
con  Dios,"  the  beautiful  salutation,  "  Go  thou 
with  God,"  heard  from  one  end  of  the  land  to  the 
other.  The  beggar  gives  you  thanks  with  it,  the 
shop  man  dismisses  you,  the  friend  takes  farewell, 
but  its  pleasantest  sound  is  in  the  country,  heard 
from  the  lips  of  clear-eyed  peasants  passing  in 
the  evening  light. 

This  peasantry  is  by  instinct  well-bred,  proud 
of  a  pure  descent,  by  nature  a  gentleman,  a  caba- 
llero.  A  traveler's  life  and  pocket  are  absolutely . 
secure  in  these  unfrequented  northern  provinces 
of  "  dark  and  scowling  Spain."  For  a  century 
those  who  have  turned  aside  from  the  beaten  track 
have  brought  back  the  same  tale  of  courtesy  and 
hospitality.  There  is  much  of  Arcadian  gentle- 
ness among  these  unlettered  people.  The  Span- 
ish labrador  may  not  read  or  write,  but  he  cannot 


ioo  Heroic  Spain 

be  called  ignorant;  statistics  here  do  not  guide 
one  to  a  true  knowledge.  The  country  people 
hand  down  in  the  primitive  way,  from  one  genera- 
tion to  the  other,  a  ripe  store  of  human  wisdom, 
that  often  gives  them  a  wider  outlook  on  life  and 
a  deeper  strength  of  character  than  that  of  the 
educated  man  who  shallowly  criticises  them. 
They  are  unspoiled  and  very  human,  the  women 
essentially  feminine,  the  men  essentially  manly; 
daily  this  note  of  virility  strikes  one,  —  one  grows 
to  love  their  expressive,  beautiful  word,  varonil. 
"  The  man  in  the  saloon  steamer  has  seen  all  the 
races  of  men,  and  he  is  thinking  of  the  things  that 
divide  men,  —  diet,  dress,  decorum,  rings  in  the 
nose  as  in  Africa,  or  in  the  ears  as  in  Europe. 
The  man  in  the  cabbage  field  has  seen  nothing  at 
all;  but  he  is  thinking  of  the  things  that  unite 
men,  —  hunger,  and  babies,  and  the  beauty  of 
women,  and  the  promise  or  menace  of  the  sky." 
When  one  can  say  a  thing  like  that,  one  is  born  to 
appreciate  Spain.  Will  not  Mr.  Gilbert  Chester- 
ton go  there  and  study  some  day  her  untamable 
grand  old  qualities  and  describe  her  as  she  should 
be  described?  If  such  a  country  population  had 
had  good  government  during  the  past  three  hun- 
dred years  instead  of  the  worst  of  tyrannies,  where 
would  it  stand  to-day?  Though  such  a  surmise  is 
foolish,  for  perhaps  it  is  because  of  its  isolation 
that  the  Spanish  peasantry  is  racy  and  vigorous. 


Oviedo  in  the  Asturias        101 

Knowing  the  hopelessness  of  battling  against 
corruption  in  high  places  in  Madrid,  it  lived  out 
of  touch  with  modern  life,  elevated  by  its  intense 
faith,  the  hard-won  inheritance  from  the  Recon- 
quista,  —  and  a  peasant's  faith  is  his  form  of 
poetry  and  ideality,  which  when  taken  from  him 
makes  him  lose  in  refinement  and  charm. 

Back  in  the  Basque  provinces  the  new  idea  had 
dawned  on  us  that  this  was  not  a  spent,  degen- 
erate race,  but  a  young  unspoiled  one,  and  every 
excursion  in  the  country  parts  of  Spain  made 
deeper  the  assurance  of  red  blood  coursing  in  her 
veins.  Corrupt  government  has  deeply  tainted 
the  city  classes,  has  made  loafers,  and  men  who 
open  their  trusts  to  the  silver  key,  but  the  heart  of 
the  people  is  sound.  It  has  been  tragically 
wounded  by  rulers  to  whom,  an  heroic  trait,  it  has 
ever  been  loyal.  If  a  country  after  centuries  of 
misrule  had  the  same  power  to  govern  herself  as 
a  nation  that  had  had  enlightened  government 
for  the  same  length  of  time,  would  not  one  of  the 
best  arguments  for  good  government  be  lost?  It 
may  be  a  long  time  before  Spain  learns  the  re- 
straint of  self-rule.  But  go  among  the  vigorous 
mountaineers  of  the  north,  talk  with  the  patient, 
sober  Castilian  labrador,  watch  the  Catalan  men 
of  industry  and  you  will  see  the  possibility  of  her 
future.  A  noble  esprit  de  corps  controls  the 
Guardia  Oivil  who  are  the  keepers  of  law  and  se- 


iO2  Heroic  Spain 

curity  in  Spain,  to  whom  a  bribe  is  an  insult.  Let 
the  same  spirit  extend  to  the  other  departments, 
—  to  the  post,  to  the  railway,  the  civil  govern- 
ment ;  let  the  judge  sit  on  an  impregnable  height ; 
let  the  priest  of  Andalusia  have  as  solemn  a  reali- 
zation of  his  office  as  the  priest  of  Navarre,  of 
Aragon,  of  old  Castile;  let  the  women  be  given 
a  wider  education  (though  may  nothing  ever 
change  their  present  qualities  as  wives  and 
mothers),  and  Spain  is  on  the  right  road. 

Cavadonga  was  merely  a  two  days'  trip  from 
Oviedo,  yet  we  had  to  forego  it.  The  weather 
was  too  abominable;  while  Malaga  on  the  south- 
ern coast  of  Spain  has  an  average  of  but  fifty- 
two  rainy  days  in  the  year,  this  city  on  the  north- 
ern coast  has  only  fifty-two  cloudless  days.  The 
thought  of  a  rickety  diligence  over  miles  of 
muddy  roads  kept  enthusiasm  within  bounds. 
After  a  short  pause  in  the  Asturian  capital  we 
took  the  train  back  to  Leon.  The  valleys  were  a 
veritable  paradise;  now  we  skirted  a  wide  river 
flowing  under  heavily-wooded  hills,  now  we 
crossed  fields  covered  with  the  autumn  crocus, 
and  saw  from  the  balconies  of  the  farmhouses 
yellow  tapestries  of  corn  cobs  hung  out  to  dry. 

Some  day,  not  so  far  distant  as  an  ideal  gov- 
ernment in  Spain,  the  lover  of  independence  and 
untouched  nature  will  come  to  these  northern 
provinces  instead  of  going  to  hotel-infested 


Oviedo  in  the  Asturias       103 

Switzerland.  The  temperate  climate,  the  trout 
and  salmon  rivers,  the  courtesy  of  the  people, 
make  these  valleys  between  the  mountains  and  the 
sea  an  ideal  tramping  and  camping  ground  for 
the  summer. 


THE  SLEEPING  CITIES  OF  LEON 

"  I  stood  before  the  triple  northern  porch 
Where  dedicated  shapes  of  saints  and  kings, 
Stern  faces  bleared  with  immemorial   watch, 
Looked  down  benignly  grave  and  seemed  to  say : 
'  Ye  come  and  go  incessant ;   we  remain 
Safe  in  the  hallowed  quiets  of  the  past ; 
Be  reverent,  ye  who  flit  and  are  forgot 
Of  faith  so  nobly  realized  as  this.' ' 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

THERE  have  been  many  efforts  to  divide  Spain 
into  right-angled  departments  similar  to  those  of 
her  neighbor  France.  The  individual  land  throws 
off  such  efforts  to  bring  her  into  geometric 
proportion:  never  can  her  thirteen  immemorial 
divisions,  her  thirteen  historic  provinces  be  wiped 
out.  Each  is  an  entity  with  ineradicable  charac- 
teristics and  customs.  Their  boundaries  may 
seem  confused  on  a  paper  map,  but  they  are  rea- 
sonable in  the  flesh  and  blood  geography  of 
mountains  and  river  valleys,  or  the  psychological 
geography  of  early  affiliation  and  conquest. 

No  Alfonso  or  Ferdinand  will  ever  be  King  of 
Spain,  but  King  of  the  Spains,  Itey  de  las  Es- 
paiias.  Mi  paisano,  the  term  which  stands  for 


The  Sleeping  Cities  of  Leon      105 

the  closest  bond  of  fellowship,  is  used  by  an  Ara- 
gonese  of  an  Aragonese,  by  a  Catalan  of  a  Cata- 
lan, never  by  an  Aragonese  of  an  Andalusian, 
or  a  Catalan  of  a  Castilian.  The  independent 
Basque  provinces,  (where  the  monarch  is  merely 
a  lord)  the  free  mountain  towns  of  Navarre,  stiff- 
necked  Aragon,  these  never  will  merge  themselves 
in  Old  Castile.  Nor  can  Catalonia,  self -centered, 
humming  with  manufactures  and  seething  with 
anarchy,  understand  pleasure-loving  Andalusia, 
that  basks  under  fragrant  orange  trees  as  it  smiles 
its  ceaseless  manana.  Valencia  and  Murcia, 
where  crop  follows  crop  in  prodigal  fruitfulness 
are  the  antithesis  of  desolate  Estremadura,  and  of 
that  immortal  desert  of  Don  Quixote  the  de- 
nuded steppes  of  New  Castile,  to  their  north. 
And  the  mountain  provinces  of  Galicia  and  the 
Asturias,  of  idyllic  hill  and  dale,  yet  with  sea- 
ports fast  awakening  to  commercial  life,  look 
with  little  sympathy  on  the  sluggish  province  of 
Leon  that  borders  them. 

Industrial  advancement  is  on  its  gradual  way 
in  Spain,  but  there  is  not  a  hint  of  its  movement 
in  this  oldest  of  the  separate  kingdoms.  Zamora, 
Astorga,  Leon,  Salamanca,  the  romantic  cities 
of  the  earlier  days  of  chivalry,  lie  asleep;  the 
whistle  of  the  railways  has  failed  to  rouse  them. 
You  must  lay  aside  all  theories  of  modern  comfort 
here,  and  make  the  tour  in  the  spirit  of  a  pilgrim 


io6  Heroic  Spain 

lover  of  the  antique  and  picturesque.  What  else 
could  be  expected  in  a  province  where  the  peas- 
antry still  embroider  their  coarse  linen  sheets  with 
castles  and  heraldic  lions,  in  a  land  where  even  the 
blazonry  of  a  city  rings  with  a  psalm,  Ego  autem 
ad  Deum  clamavL  The  centuries  of  forays  have 
bequeathed  a  hardy  endurance  to  the  people,  but 
they  are  the  cause  at  the  same  time  of  the  scanty 
population  of  the  plains,  the  tragic  evil  of  central 
Spain. 

We  got  to  the  city  of  Leon  the  day  of  a  horse 
fair.  Fresh  from  wide-awake  Oviedo,  it  was  like 
stepping  back  into  an  older  world;  here  was  old 
Spain  much  as  it  was  in  the  time  of  Guzman1 
the  Good,  the  defender  of  Tarifa  in  1294,  whose 
casa  solar  faced  the  plaza  where  the  fair  was  held. 
The  peasants  who  bargained  in  groups,  wore 
toga-draped  capes  and  wide-brimmed  felt  hats 
edged  with  an  inch  of  velvet;  every  horse  in  Spain 
must  have  been  gathered  there,  and  an  equal  num- 
ber of  kind-eyed  woolly  little  donkeys,  essential 
factors  of  a  Spanish  scene.  "  The  Castilian  don- 
key has  a  philosophic,  deliberate  air,"  wrote 

1  Every  Spanish  child  knows  the  story  of  Guzman  el  bueno  at  Tarifa. 
The  rebel  infante  threatened  to  kill  Guzman's  son,  were  the  city  not 
surrendered,  whereupon  the  hero  flung  his  own  knife  down  from  the 
walls;  rather  the  death  of  him  he  loved  best  than  disloyalty  to  his  trust 
and  king.  The  boy  was  killed  under  his  father's  eyes. 

When  the  tomb  of  this  national  hero  was  opened  in  1570,  the  skeleton 
discovered  was  nine  feet  long,  just  as  Jaime  I  el  Conquistador,  a  contemp- 
orary of  Guzman,  was  found  to  be  of  gigantic  proportions  when  the 
pantheon  of  the  Aragonese  kings  in  Poblet  was  sacked  in  1835. 


The  Sleeping  Cities  of  Leon      107 

Theophile  Gautier  on  his  sympathetic  tour  in  the 
Peninsula  seventy  years  ago,  "  he  understands 
very  well  they  can't  do  without  him;  he  is  one  of 
the  family,  he  has  read  '  Don  Quixote,'  and  he 
flatters  himself  he  descends  in  direct  line  from  the 
famous  ass  of  Sancho  Panza." 

A  step  beyond  the  horse  fair  brought  us  to 
masssive  Roman  walls  with  frequent  semi-circular 
towers;  Leon's  name  comes  from  Augustus'  7th 
Legion  who  fortified  it  against  the  highlanders 
of  the  north.  Built  into  the  walls  is  the  remark- 
able church  of  San  Isidore  encrusted  with  later 
work,  but  with  the  strong  Romanesque  lines  still 
prominent.  The  pilgrims  who  flocked  from 
Europe  to  Santiago  Compostella  in  the  Middle 
Ages  were  partly  the  means  of  bringing  this  style 
into  Spain;  thus  San  Isidore  is  of  Burgundian 
origin,  just  as  Santiago  Cathedral  resembles 
Saint  -  Sernin  in  Toulouse,  and  the  Catalan 
churches  show  Lombard  features.  Though  the 
Spaniard  adapted  the  style  to  his  own  character, 
adding  the  original  feature  of  outside  cloisters 
for  the  laity,  its  importation  nipped  in  the  bud  a 
just  beginning  national  architecture,  whose  loss 
cannot  but  be  regretted.  San  Isidore  has  a 
privilege  seldom  given,  the  Blessed  Sacrament 
being  exposed  every  day  of  the  year,  and  always 
before  its  lighted  altar  one  sees  veiled  figures 
kneeling.  It  served  as  the  pantheon  for  the  kings 


io8  Heroic  Spain 

who  followed  Ordono  II  —  twelfth  in  descent 
from  Pelayo  —  who  removed  his  capital  from 
Oviedo  here,  and  the  ancient  burial  chamber  still 
has  ceilings  painted  in  the  stiff  Byzantine  manner 
with  obscure  color,  hard  lines,  and  lack  of  per- 
spective, probably  the  oldest  paintings  in  Spain. 
The  "  Romancero  "  tells  how  Jimena,  the  gal- 
lant, golden-haired  wife  of  the  Cid,  came  here 
after  the  birth  of  her  child  to  attend  Mass.  She 
wore  the  velvet  robes  given  her  by  the  king  on 
the  day  of  her  marriage,  a  richly  jeweled  hair- 
jiet,  gift  of  the  Infanta  Urraca,  her  rival;  around 
her  neck  painted  medals  of  San  Lazaro  and  San 
Pedro,  santos  de  su  devocion,  and  so  beautiful 
was  she  that  the  sun  stood  still  in  his  course  to  see 
her  better.  At  the  church  door  the  king  met  her 
and  escorted  her  in  honor,  for  was  not  her  hus- 
band away  fighting  the  infidel  for  his  monarch? 
There  is  so  true  a  ring  to  the  old  ballads  that 
Jimena  lives  a  real  personage. 

"  Oviedo  la  sacra,  Toledo  la  rica,  Sevilla  la 
grande,  Salamanaca  la  fuerte,  Leon  la  bella" 
runs  an  old  verse  on  Spanish  Cathedrals.  And 
the  Cathedral  of  Leon  merits  its  name.  It  is  har- 
moniously beautiful,  pure  French-Gothic,  grace- 
ful and  elegant,  classic  if  the  word  is  permissible 
for  the  unrestrained  individualism  of  Gothic 
art.  Built  in  one  age  without  intermission,  in 
1303  the  Bishop  announced  that  no  further 


Copyright,  1910,  by  Underwood  <&  Underwood 

THE  CATHEDRAL  or  LEON 


The  Sleeping  Cities  of  Leon      109 

contributions  were  needed,  and  the  centuries  since 
have  left  the  church  untouched.  Here  no  cold 
Herrera  portal  usurps  some  lovely  pointed  work 
and  Churrigueresque  extravagancies  are  not 
prominent:  the  late  restorations  have  followed 
the  first  plans. 

Always  excepting  the  Portico  de  la  Gloria  in 
Santiago,  the  west  doorways  of  Leon  Cathe- 
drals stand  for  the  best  in  Spanish  sculpture. 
The  statue  of  the  Virgen  Blanca  in  the  center  is 
famous.  Around  her  the  saints  and  apostles  are 
grouped  in  appealing  attitudes; — out  of  pro- 
portion though  they  may  be  as  to  hands  and  feet, 
their  sincerity  covers  all  flaws:  here,  a  homely 
face  with  care-worn  wrinkles  of  goodness ;  there, 
one  beaming  in  satisfaction  to  be  standing  in  such 
a  chosen  band.  The  lunette  over  the  central 
door  is  delightful.  On  one  side,  in  Heaven,  a 
clerk  plays  the  organ,  while  a  boy  blows  the  bel- 
lows, and  groups  stand  chatting  near,  for  a 
Spaniard's  idea  of  bliss,  in  those  days  also,  took 
the  form  of  ease  and  desultory  talk.  Hell,  on  the 
opposite  side,  not  to  be  outdone,  has  two  urchins 
blowing  bellows  as  well,  not  to  make  music  but 
to  quicken  a  fiery  caldron  into  which  devils  are 
thrusting  the  sinners.  The  enjoyment  of  the 
old  sculptor  in  his  Heaven  and  Hell  was  too  keen 
to  be  confined  in  the  lunette  and  he  has  spread 
himself  over  the  curving  of  the  arches;  in  spite 


no  Heroic  Spain 

of  time  and  retouching  these  three  doorways  show 
exquisite  detail  chiseling. 

"  About  their  shoulders  sparrows  had  built  nests 
And  fluttered,  chirping,  from  gray  perch  to  perch, 
Now  on  a  miter  poising,  now  a  crown, 
Irreverently  happy." 

Within  Leon  Cathedral  all  is  quiet  and  solemn, 
v  a  true  beauty  of  holiness.  There  is  no  clutter  of 
side  chapels  in  the  nave  but  a  sheer  sweep  of  win- 
dows filled  with  the  jeweled  glass  of  Flemish 
masters.1  These  windows  come  as  a  surprise 
in  a  land  where  churches  are  guarded  from  the 
sun,  and  often  the  open  triforium  and  clearstory, 
as  at  Avila,  are  walled  up  later  to  darken  the  in- 
terior. The  chancel  and  choir  are  worth  detail 
study.  The  coro  seats  have  panels  carved  with 
single  figures,  —  saints  with  their  emblems, 
warriors  with  raised  visors,  placid-faced  nuns, 
thoughtful  bishops,  gallant  pages  with  their 
crossed  feet  gracefully  poised, —  all  of  a  noble 
type,  with  high  brow  and  aquiline  nose.  Spain 
has  comparatively  nothing  to  show  in  the  way 
of  frescoes,  she  had  no  early  Masaccio,  no  Giotto, 

1  "  Le6n  Cathedral  is  indeed  in  almost  every  respect  worthy  to  be 
ranked  among  the  noblest  churches  in  Europe.  Its  detail  is  rich  and 
beautiful  throughout,  the  plan  very  excellent,  the  sculptures  with  which 
it  is  adorned  quite  equal  in  quality  and  character  to  that  of  any  church 
of  the  age,  and  the  stained  glass  with  which  its  windows  are  filled  some 
of  the  best  in  Europe." 

G.  E.  STREET:  "  Gothic  Architecture  in  Spain." 


The  Sleeping  Cities  of  Leon      1 1 1 

no  Filippo  Lippi,  to  paint  the  costumes  and  fea- 
tures of  his  generation,  but  wood  carvings  are 
her  substitute;  in  them,  and  in  her  unrivaled 
tombs  can  be  read  the  contemporary  history  of 
warrior,  bishop,  and  page.  The  retablo  of  the 
High  Altar  is  of  the  same  simple  elegance 
as  the  rest  of  the  church.  The  usual  tower- 
ing one  of  carved  .scenes  would  have  been  sin- 
gularly out  of  place,  it  is  appropriate  for  the 
big  dark  interior  of  Seville  Cathedral,  but  here 
are  grace  and  restraint  instead  of  grandeur  and 
mystery,  and  most  suitable  are  the  ancient  paint- 
ings of  varying  sizes,  gathered  from  scattered 
churches  and  framed  together.  Radiating  round 
the  chancel  are  chapels  that  give  to  the  exterior 
view  of  the  apse  a  truly  French-Gothic  air,  fly- 
ing buttresses  supporting  the  cap  of  the  capilla 
mayor. 

Romanesque,  Gothic,  and  Plateresque  are  each 
well  represented  in  Leon  City.  In  the  last  style 
is  the  noticeable  convent  of  San  Marcos  that 
stands  isolated  outside  the  town  beside  the  swift 
blue-green  river.  The  Knights  of  Santiago  built 
a  resting-place  on  their  pilgrimage  route  back 
in  the  12th  century,  but  the  present  building  is 
of  Isabella's  day,  and  the  architect  has  given  free 
rein  to  his  silversmith's  arabesques  and  medal- 
lions, and  scattered  pilgrim  shells  all  over  the 
facade  of  the  church.  We  tried  to  get  into  the 


ii2  Heroic  Spain 

Museum,  now  in  the  convent,  as  it  contains  some 
good  wood  carvings,  but  an  aged  beggar  at  the 
door  explained  "  Manana"  the  easy  "  to-morrow," 
as  prevalent  in  Leon  as  in  Andalusia,  —  then  ris- 
ing to  the  occasion  as  only  an  Italian  or  Spanish 
beggar  can,  he  swept  open  his  toga-draped  cape, 
smiling  as  he  pointed  to  the  entrance  door:  "  To- 
morrow, after  your  morning  chocolate,  it  will  be 
open  for  you." 

It  was  sunset  as  we  turned  away.  The  long 
mass  of  San  Marcos  stood  boldly  against  the  red 
glow  of  the  sky.  The  horizon  was  outlined  by 
the  blue  mountains  of  Asturias.  With  our  imag- 
ination filled  with  the  old  days  when  pilgrims 
flocked  here  from  England,  from  the  forests  of 
Germany,  from  the  Po  and  the  Danube,  sud- 
denly over  the  ancient  bridge  rode  a  troop  of  cav- 
aliers on  prancing  steeds,  in  cloaks  and  plumed 
hats.  The  kindly  blessed  illusion  hid  the  fact  that 
our  pilgrim-knights  were  sturdy  peasants  in  the 
national  capa,  riding  their  long-haired  horses  back 
from  the  city  fair. 

"  Sin  el  vivo  calor,  sin  el  fecundo 
Rayo  de  la  ilusion  consoladora 
i  Que  f uera  de  la  vida  y  del  mundo  ?  " 

asks  one  of  Spain's  poets  of  the  19th  century, 
!Nunez  de  Arce,  and  in  his  native  country  it  takes 
but  little  effort  of  the  imagination  to  repeople  the 


The  Sleeping  Cities  of  Leon      113 

solemn  churches,  the  narrow  city  streets,  or  the 
treeless  plain  with  the  romantic  figures  of  the 
past. 

The  following  day  at  dawn,  after  a  miserable 
night  in  rooms  like  icy  death,  a  true  pilgrim  night 
of  endurance,  we  took  the  train  for  the  west.  As 
we  entered  the  railway  carriage  Reseruado  para 
Senoras  a  sleepy  railway-guard  stumbled  out 
of  the  further  door;  all  through  the  journey  in 
the  north,  we  roused  these  cozily-ensconced  rail- 
way-officials, for  so  rare  are  ladies  alone  on  this 
route,  that  the  conductors  have  fallen  into  the 
habit  of  sleeping  in  the  carriage  reserved  for  them. 
When  our  tickets  were  collected  we  were  given 
many  a  severe  look  for  daring  to  upset  a  cosa  de 
Espana. 

On  the  way  from  Leon  to  Astorga,  little  over 
thirty  miles,  the  realization  of  the  old  pilgrim 
route  is  vivid.  Before  reaching  Astorga  comes 
the  paladin's  bridge,1  of  Orbigo,  where  in  the 
reign  of  Isabella's  father  ten  caballeros  andan- 
tes challenged  every  passing  pilgrim  to  a  bout 
of  arms ;  if  a  lady  came  without  a  cavalier  to  fight 
for  her,  she  forfeited  her  glove,  if  any  knight  de- 

1  "  Libro  del  Paso  Honroso  "  written  by  an  eye  witness,  Pero  Rodrf- 
guez  de  Lena.  Prescott  says  that  no  country  has  been  more  fruitful 
in  the  field  of  historical  composition  than  Spain.  The  chronicles  date 
from  the  twelfth  century,  every  great  family,  every  town  and  every 
city  had  its  chronicler.  Compare  the  minute  details  we  have  of  Cort6s 
in  Mexico  about  1517,  with  the  meager  accounts  we  find  of  the  North 
American  settlers  some  generations  later. 


ii4  Heroic  Spain 

clined  to  fight  he  lost  his  sword  and  spur.  The 
age  of  knight  errantry  which  Cervantes  has  haloed 
with  a  deathless  charm,  breathes  in  this  historic 
Pass  of  Honour.  The  leader,  Suero  de  Quin- 
ones,  came  of  the  great  Guzman  family,  to  which 
St.  Dominic  belonged,  and  of  which  the  Empress 
Eugenie  was  a  scion.  To  show  his  captivity  to 
his  lady,  every  Thursday  he  wore  an  iron  chain 
round  his  neck,  but  when  victor  in  this  tourney, 
it  was  removed  with  solemnity  by  the  her- 
alds. Suero's  sword  is  to  be  seen  to-day  in  the 
Madrid  Armory  where  in  an  hour  more  of 
Spain's  real  history  is  learned  than  in  years  of 
reading. 

The  Roman  walls  of  Astorga,  seen  from  the 
railway  present  an  imposing  appearance:  here, 
as  at  Leon  and  Lugo,  the  frequent  half -circular 
towers  do  not  rise  above  the  crest  of  the  walls. 
Astorga  must  have  looked  just  like  this  when  the 
pilgrims  rode  by  to  the  shrine  of  St.  James.  A 
closer  inspection  spoils  the  illusion  however,  for 
the  proud  city  that  once  ranked  as  a  grandee  of 
Spain  is  to-day  a  very  tattered  and  worn  hidalgo, 
and  there  is  a  sad  air  of  desolation  about  its  plaza 
and  crumbling  walls.  Whether  or  not  it  was  be- 
cause our  ramble  was  by  early  morning  before 
the  inhabitants  were  astir,  at  any  rate  I  brought 
away  a  picture  of  a  depopulated  town.  There 
but  a  few  silent  worshipers  under  the  clus- 


The  Sleeping  Cities  of  Leon      115 

tered  piers  of  the  late-Gothic  Cathedral,  whose 
reddish  tower  is  the  important  feature  of  the  dis- 
tant view.  What  had  tempted  us  to  pause  a  night 
in  Astorga  was  the  wood-carved  retablo  by  Be- 
cerra  in  the  Cathedral,  but  we  found  it  by  no 
means  equal  to  the  work  of  the  carvers  in  Vallado- 
lid.  Becerra  had  studied  under  Vasari  in  Rome, 
and  the  influence  is  shown  too  plainly.  There 
is  a  curious  weather  cock^  on  the  church,  a 
wooden  statue  called  Pedro  Mata,  dressed  in  the 
costume  of  a  singular  tribe  that  lives  in  some 
thirty  villages  near  by.  The  origin  of  the  Mara- 
gatos  is  involved  in  mystery;  some  say  they  are 
the  descendants  of  Moors  taken  hi  battle,  some 
of  Goths  who  sided  with  the  Moors.  During  all 
these  centuries  they  have  kept  separate  from  the 
people  about  them,  like  gypsies  they  marry  only 
with  themselves.  They  should  not  be  confounded 
with  gitanos,  however,  for  the  Maragatos  are 
honest  and  industrious;  they  are  the  carriers  of 
the  countryside,  with  the  privilege  of  taking  pre- 
cedence on  the  road.  Here  and  there  in  Spain 
one  stumbles  on  a  strange,  isolated  relic  of  the 
past  such  as  this.  Astorga  was  still  sleeping,  in 
the  literal  as  well  as  figurative  sense,  when  we 
left;  a  walk  on  top  of  the  walls  looking  out  over 
the  Leon  plain,  a  regret  that  we  could  not  sketch 
the  artistic  church  of  San  Julian,  with  its  faded 
green  door  and  crumbling  portal,  and  we  turned 


n6  Heroic  Spain 

south.  On  the  train  I  discovered  that  a  five  franc 
piece  given  me  in  change  by  the  innkeeper,  was 
nothing  but  a  bit  of  silver-washed  brass  advertis- 
ing the  cakes  of  one  Casimiro  in  Salamanca,  and 
I,  seeing  the  king's  effigy,  had  thought  it  a  gen- 
uine Spanish  dollar,  —  it  is  easy  to  be  caught 
napping  in  Leon. 

Zamora  is  not  many  miles  from  Astorga  and 
like  the  other  sleepy  towns  of  the  province,  it  too 
seems  to  feel  it  has  a  right  to  a  long  pause  in  ob- 
scurity after  its  heroic  centuries  of  Moorish  war- 
fare. The  great  hour  of  the  city  was  the  time  of 
the  Cid;  the  "  Romancero  "  should  be  in  one's 
pocket  here.  One  of  its  stirring  incidents  is  the 
death  of  King  Ferdinand  I,  in  1065,  and  its  se- 
quel of  battles  and  sieges.  The  king  lies  on  his 
deathbed,  holding  a  candle,  great  prelates  at  his 
head  and  his  four  sons  on  his  right  hand.  With 
the  fatal  propensity  of  Spanish  rulers  to  bequeath 
discord,  he  divides  his  kingdom  among  his  sons; 
to  Don  Sancho,  Castile;  Leon  to  Alfonso;  the 
Basque  provinces  to  Garcia;  the  fourth  son  al- 
ready was  of  enough  importance,  "  Arzobispo  de 
Toledo,  Maestre  de  Santiago,  Abad  en  Zara- 
goza,  de  las  Espanas,  Primado"  The  king's 
daughter  Urraca,  she  who  had  given  the  Cid's 
wife,  Jimena,  her  jeweled  hair-net,  now  complains 
bitterly  that  she  is  left  out  of  the  inheritance,  so 
her  dying  father  gives  her  the  fortress-city  of 


The  Sleeping  Cities  of  Leon      117 

Zamora,  "  muy  preciada,  fuerte  es  a  maravilla" 
and  "  who  takes  it  from  you  let  my  curse  fall  on 
him."  In  spite  of  which  threat  her  wicked  brother 
Sancho,  besieges  the  city,  —  a  Spanish  proverb 
for  patience  runs :  "  No  se  gano  Zamora  en  una 
hora"  With  Sancho  comes  his  chief  warrior 
Roderick  Diaz  de  Bivar,  given  the  title  of  Cid 
Campeador,  Lord  Champion,  by  the  Moorish 
envoys  who  here  met  him.  The  Cid  had  wellnigh 
fought  an  entrance  into  the  city  when  the  in- 
trepid Urraca  ascends  a  tower  —  to-day  called 
the  Afuera  Tower  —  and  delivers  her  famous 
scolding. 

"  i  Afuera !     Afuera !     Rodrigo, 
El  soberbio  Castellano !  " 

"Out!  Out!  Rodrigo,  proud  Castilian!  Re- 
member the  past!  When  you  were  knighted  be- 
fore the  altar  of  Santiago,  and  my  father,  your 
sponsor,  gave  you  your  armor,  my  mother  gave 
you  your  steed,  and  I  laced  on  your  spurs !  For  I 
thought  to  be  your  bride,  but  you,  proud  Cas- 
tilian, set  aside  a  king's  daughter  to  wed  that  of 
a  mere  Count ! "  And  the  ballad  tells  how  the 
Cid,  hearing  her  upbraiding  with  emotion,  re- 
tired with  his  men. 

The  only  present  attraction  of  the  decayed 
town  is  its  Cathedral,  set  high  above  the  Duero 
on  the  edge  of  the  bluff  along  which  Zamora 


n8  Heroic  Spain 

stretches.  It  was  built  by  the  Cid's  confessor, 
Bishop  Geronimo,  the  dome  above  the  transept 
crossing  being  an  original  feature  which  the 
bishop  was  to  elaborate  later  in  the  old  Cathedral 
of  Salamanca;  as  Trinity  Church,  Boston,  is 
copied  from  this  last,  Zamora  has  a  special  interest 
for  the  visitor  from  New  England.  We  had  a 
four  hours'  pause  there,  ample  time  to  see  the  city. 
It  was  raining  so  dismally  that  my  fellow  trav- 
eler decided  not  to  face  a  certain  drenching,  as 
the  long-drawn-out  town  had  to  be  traversed  be- 
fore reaching  the  Cathedral.  In  an  unfortunate 
moment  I  started  out  alone  for  what  I  supposed 
would  be  a  leisurely  exploring  of  a  venerable  city. 
Fleeing  in  distress  would  better  describe  the  real- 
ity, for  every  hooting  boy  and  girl  in  Zamora 
followed  iat  my  heels.  Whether  it  was  a  white 
ulster  or  an  automobile  veil  tied  over  my  hat  as 
the  wind  was  high,  or  just  the  unaccustomed  figure 
of  a  stranger  in  those  narrow  streets,  an  excited 
crowd  pursued  me  the  whole  length  of  the  town. 
In  front,  walking  backward,  open-mouthed,  went 
a  dozen  urchins,  and  behind  came  a  long  brigade 
I  hardly  dared  look  back  on,  it  so  increased  with 
every  step.  Men  hastened  to  their  shop  doors  to 
wonder  at  the  crowd,  and  the  passers-by  stood  still 
in  astonishment;  a  feeling  of  horror  came  over 
me  at  such  publicity.  In  vain  I  fled  into  churches 
in  the  hope  of  escaping  the  relentless  little  pests; 


The  Sleeping  Cities  of  Leon      119 

when  I  emerged  they  greeted  me  with  howls  of 
pleasure.  I  angrily  shook  my  umbrella  at  them, 
but  that  only  added  to  the  glorious  excitement. 
Here  and  there  a  kind  woman  came  to  the  both- 
ered stranger's  help,  and  scattered  the  crowd. 
The  children  merely  scampered  down  side  streets 
to  meet  me  again  in  still  greater  numbers  at  the 
next  corner.  It  is  easy  to  laugh  now  that  it 
is  over,  but  at  the  time  there  is  small  amuse- 
ment in  fleeing  through  a  foreign  city  pursued 
by  forty  hooting  youngsters,  to  have  them  press 
round  you  in  a  stifling  circle  when  you  pause 
to  look  in  your  book,  to  have  them  gaze  long  and 
seriously  at  you,  then  burst  into  uncontrollable 
laughter  so  that  in  desperation  you  begin  to  feel  if 
you  have  two  noses  or  six  eyes.  We  had  decided 
that  in  most  of  the  unfrequented  towns  of  Spain, 
the  children  were  a  nuisance ;  in  Zamora  they  were 
positive  vampires.  A  visitor  in  the  future  had 
best  wear  black,  a  black  veil  on  the  head,  a  black 
prayer-book  in  the  hand,  as  if  on  the  way  to 
church,  then  resembling  other  people,  the  child- 
ren may  let  her  pass.  But  a  white  ulster  and  a 
red  guide  book  are  magic  pipes  of  Hamelin  to 
lure  every  idle  child  in  Zamora.  In  spite  of  wind 
and  rain,  and  a  lengthy  disappearance  within 
the  Cathedral,  it  was  only  on  reentering  the 
station,  several  hours  after  they  had  first  seized  on 
their  prey,  that  the  unsolicited  escort  left  me,  and 


I2O  Heroic  Spain 

even  then  they  hung  round  the  door  till  the 
shriek  of  the  engine  told  them  the  escaped  luna- 
tic who  had  given  them  so  splendid  an  afternoon's 
entertainment  was  out  of  reach. 


GALICIA 

"  Blessed  the  natures  shored  on  every  side 
With  landmarks  of  hereditary  thought! 
Thrice  happy  they  that  wander  not  lifelong 
Beyond  near  succour  of  the  household  faith, 
The  guarded  fold  that  shelters,  not  confines! 
Their  steps  find  patience  in  familiar  paths 
Printed  with  hope  by  loved  feet  gone  before 
Of  parent,  child  or  lover,  glorified 
By  simple  magic  of  dividing  Time." 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

JERUSALEM,  Rome,  Santiago,  —  perhaps  this 
claims  too  much  for  the  Spanish  pilgrimage 
shrine?  It  would  not  in  the  Middle  Ages,  when 
the  Christians  of  all  Europe  flocked  there  to  pray 
beside  the  tomb  of  St.  James  the  Elder,  the  pa- 
tron of  Spain  invoked  in  the  battle  cry  of  her  chiv- 
alry for  a  thousand  years,  "/  Santiago  y  cierra 
Espana!  "  —  "  St.  James  and  close  Spain!  "  A 
Latin  certificate  used  to  be  given  to  every  pilgrim, 
and  it  was  kept  among  family  records,  for  there 
were  properties  that  could  only  be  inherited  if 
one  had  gone  to  Santiago  Compostella.  To-day 
Spaniards  are  the  only  devotees,  though  as  I  write 
I  see  that  a  band  of  English  pilgrims  with  the 
Archbishop  of  Westminster  at  its  head  is  visiting 


122  Heroic  Spain 

the  far-off  corner  of  Galicia.  Though  few  trav- 
elers turn  out  of  their  way  there,  it  is  one  of  the 
most  characteristic  spots  to  be  seen  in  Spain,  a 
solemn  old  granite  city,  with  arcaded  streets  and 
vast  half -empty  caravansaries  darkened  with  hu- 
midity and  age. 

It  takes  over  fifteen  hours  to  go  from  Leon  to 
Santiago,  but  the  journey  is  a  beautiful  one,  with 
mountains  and  fertile  valleys,  and  rivers  such  as 
the  Sill  and  that  gem  of  the  province,  the  Mifio. 
At  Monf orte  the  railway  branches,  one  line  goes 
to  Tiiy  and  Santiago,  and  the  other  turns  up 
to  Lugo  and  Coruna.  We  took  this  last,  tempted 
by  accounts  of  Lugo. 

It  is  indeed  a  unique  little  city,  walled  around 
without  a  break  by  Roman  battlements  forty 
feet  high,  on  the  top  of  which  is  the  fashionable 
promenade  of  the  town.  With  its  walls  and  the 
view  from  them,  it  closely  resembles  Lucca. 
Lugo  was  a  surprise  in  various  ways.  It  had  a 
hotel,  the  "Fernan  Nunez,"  so  up-to-date  that 
it  boasted  a  tiled  bathroom  with  hot  water  and  a 
shower  bath.  Not  only  the  comfortable  inn  but 
the  streets  of  the  town  were  a  model  of  propriety. 
As  always,  our  steps  turned  first  to  the  Cathe- 
dral, spoiled  outside,  as  is  unfortunately  the  way 
in  Spain,  by  those  two  disastrous  centuries,  the 
seventeenth  and  eighteenth,  but  within  being  of 
the  lovely  transition  period,  Romanesque  as  it 


Galicia  123 

merged  into  Gothic,  with  the  arches  just  slightly 
pointed.  The  irrepressible  Churriguera  has 
worked  himself  into  the  inside  of  the  church  too; 
his  canopy  over  the  High  Altar  is  abominable, 
though  it  would  take  more  than  that  to  detract 
from  the  simple  solemnity  of  such  a  church. 
Lugo  is  one  of  the  holiest  spots  in  the  Peninsula, 
like  San  Isidore  in  Leon,  it  claims  the  privilege 
of  perpetual  exposition  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament, 
only  more  privileged  than  Leon,  exposed  night 
as  well  as  day.  So  proud  is  the  province  of  this 
ancient  custom  that  the  Host  is  represented  on 
the  shield  of  Galicia. 

No  matter  at  what  hour  you  enter  the  Cathedral, 
there  are  worshipers;  two  priests  always  kneel 
before  the  tabernacle,  and  they  never  kneel  alone. 
The  scenes  of  humble  piety  drew  me  back  to  the 
church  again  and  again  with  compelling  attrac- 
tion. To  me  a  Spaniard  praying  unconsciously  be- 
fore the  altar  is  unequaled  by  any  act  of  worship 
I  have  witnessed;  not  even  the  touching  Russian 
pilgrims  in  Jerusalem  kissing  the  pavement  in 
the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  nor  the  Arab 
at  sunset  kneeling  alone  in  the  desert,  can  impress 
more  powerfully.  It  seemed  as  if  this  tranquil 
shrine  of  Lugo  spread  an  influence  of  uplifting 
thought  through  the  whole  contented  little  town; 
in  the  quiet  afternoon  a  withered  grandmother 
knelt  with  her  hands  on  the  head  of  a  little  tot  of 


124  Heroic  Spain 

six  who  repeated  the  prayers  that  fell  from  the 
old  lips,  or  three  young  women  of  the  upper  class 
sought  a  retired  corner  of  the  church  to  repeat 
together  their  daily  chaplet ;  now  in  a  side  chapel, 
a  peasant  thinking  herself  unobserved,  in  a  glow 
of  devotion,  encircled  the  altar  on  her  knees. 

On  leaving  the  west  door  of  the  Cathedral, 
we  ascended  the  inclined  path  that  leads  to  the 
promenade  on  top  of  the  walls.  It  was  sunset,  an 
exquisite  hour  to  look  out  on  the  well-wooded 
countryside,  through  which  meandered  the  trout- 
filled  Mino.  In  the  distance  were  mountains.  No 
wonder  the  Romans,  who  ferreted  out  most  of  the 
choice  spots  of  Europe,  used  to  come  to  this  city 
for  the  thermal  baths.  The  handsome  modern 
Lugonians  strolled  around  the  ramparts,  paus- 
ing to  chat  here  and  there  in  the  semicircles  made 
by  the  numerous  towers  of  the  wall.  Now  a 
white-haired  matron  draped  in  the  national 
mantilla,  loitered  leisurely  by,  with  some  of  the 
higher  ecclesiastics  of  the  Cathedral;  now  a 
mother  and  two  grave,  pretty  daughters  passed, 
watched  discreetly  by  the  young  beaux.  Evi- 
dently far-off  little  Lugo,  tucked  away  in  the  un- 
known northwestern  corner  of  Spain,  had  a  social 
life  that  sufficed  for  itself,  with  no  envy  of  Madrid 
and  San  Sebastian.  The  local  contentment  found 
everywhere  in  the  country  struck  me  as  admirable, 
progress"  unsettle  it?  We  could  have 


Galicia  125 

stayed  a  month  in  Lugo.  To  fish  in  the  Mino,  to 
ramble  over  the  fertile  country,  to  feel  about  one 
peaceful,  contented  human  beings,  would  make 
a  summer  there  a  happy  experience. 

When  we  went  on  to  Coruna,  a  commercial 
town  that,  like  seaports  the  world  over,  has  a 
rough  populace,  we  were  glad  to  have  first  seen 
Dona  Emilia  Pardo  Bazan's  loved  province  at 
pretty  Lugo.  In  travel  there  must  always  be,  I 
suppose,  some  places  that  one  slights;  one  knows 
if  one  stayed  long  enough  they  might  show  a 
pleasanter  side.  We  treated  Coruna  in  this  way. 
Sir  John  Moore,  buried  at  midnight  during  the 
Peninsula  War,  was  our  association  with  the 
town  before  going  there,  and  for  all  we  saw  of  it 
Sir  John  will  remain  the  chief  association  of  the 
future.  We  only  saw  the  flat,  commercial  district 
that  skirts  the  bay,  not  the  headland  where  the 
old  town  lies.  Slatternly  beggars  pestered  us, 
bold,  bare-legged  girls  stood  mocking  at  the  un- 
accustomed sight  of  foreign  women  traveling; 
it  was  with  relief  we  took  the  diligence  that  started 
at  noon  for  Santiago. 

I  shall  never  cease  regretting  that  we  did  not 
wait  till  the  following  day,  when  an  electric  dili- 
gence makes  the  journey,  for  that  eight  hours'  trip 
over  the  hills  to  the  capital  was  for  us  the  only 
horrible  experience  of  our  tour  in  Spain.  I  wish 
I  might  blot  out  its  memory,  but  as  I  am  setting 


126  Heroic  Spain 

down  frankly  everything  that  occurred,  this  scene 
of  cruelty  must  be  told  of,  too.  In  the  omnibus 
with  us  were  but  two  other  people,  and  there  were 
five  horses;  there  seemed  no  reason  to  foresee 
trouble.  For  the  first  relay  of  twelve  miles  all 
went  well,  and  we  enjoyed  looking  back  from  the 
hills  on  the  blue  Atlantic  where  the  headland  of 
'Coruna  jutted  boldly  out.  Our  drivers  treated 
the  horses  with  consideration  and  dismounted  at 
^every  ascent.  But,  alas,  for  the  second  relay,  we 
•changed  men  and  changed  animals.  Two  young 
vagabonds  were  now  on  the  box,  driving  four 
«uch  miserable,  bony  nags  that  it  tore  the  heart 
to  see  the  sores  the  rope  harness  had  made.  We 
protested  at  the  use  of  such  horses,  but  in  vain. 
Twelve  miles  lay  behind,  twenty-four  were  ahead, 
there  were  no  inns,  so  we  hesitated  to  desert  the 
diligence,  but  had  we  realized  the  two  hours  of 
purgatory  we  were  to  face,  we  had  dismounted 
and  walked  back  to  Coruna. 

One  young  wretch  drove  with  loud  cries  and 
slashing  blows ;  the  other  alighted  to  beat  the  quiv- 
ering animals  up  the  hills.  They  guided  so 
recklessly  that  we  were  once  dashed  down  the 
bank  into  the  gutter,  and  soon  after  run  into  a 
hay-cart  and  the  wheels  unlocked  with  difficulty. 
When  at  length  they  began  to  strike  the  spent 
beasts  over  the  eyes  our  anger  burst  all  bounds. 
In  a  heat  of  fury  never  before  experienced,  and 


Galicia  127 

I  hope  never  again,  we  attacked  those  two  brutal 
boys.  I  do  not  think  they  will  soon  forget  that 
scene.  At  first  they  replied  with  impudence  and 
went  on  lashing  the  horses.  But  impudence  soon 
ceased.  When  two  women  are  in  earnest  and  are 
fearless  of  consequences,  and  have  stout  umbrel- 
las, they  win  the  day.  The  twelve  miles  of  their 
escort  over,  and  new  horses  harnessed  to  the  dili- 
gence—  those  four  pitiful,  bleeding  victims  led 
away!  —  the  two  scoundrels  Slunk  off,  sore  on 
arms  and  shoulders  as  well  as  shamed  in  spirit,  for 
the  country  people  who  gathered  round  supported 
our  protest.  The  remaining  miles  to  Santiago 
finished  well,  with  good  drivers  and  stout  horses. 
But  never  will  the  horror  of  those  two  hours  leave 
me.  In  fairness  I  must  add  that  this  was  the  only 
scene  of  cruelty  I  saw  during  the  eight  months 
in  Spain,  and  again  and  again  I  noticed  plump 
happy  donkeys  who  were  treated  as  members  of 
the  family.  It  is  far-fetched  to  account  for  this 
unfortunate  instance  by  the  bull-fight,  since  in 
countries  that  have  no  such  .spectacles,  veritable 
skeletons  are  made  to  haul  cabs,  and  poor  jades 
are  used  for  drag  horses.  But  I  cannot  help  seiz- 
ing on  this  opening  for  a  little  tirade  against  the 
national  game  of  Spain,  which  Fernan  Caba- 
llero,  who  loved  her  home  with  passionate  affec- 
tion called,  "  inhuman,  immoral,  an  anachronism 
in  this  century."  The  sports  of  other  lands  are 


1 28  Heroic  Spain 

open  to  harsh  criticism.  I  do  not  think  a 
Spaniard  is  more  cruel  by  nature  than  an 
Englishman;  in  both  nations  is  a  certain  pro- 
portion of  coarsened  characters, —  the  northern 
country  may  keep  them  better  out  of  sight  in 
the  slums. 

Northern  Europe  is  to-day  more  humane  to 
animals  than  southern  Europe,  because  the 
women  of  the  north  have  had  greater  freedom 
and  have  entered  into  philanthropic  interests  such 
as  this.  Kindness  to  animals  is  a  modern  move- 
ment everywhere  (may  the  shade  of  St.  Francis 
of  Assisi  forgive  this  half  statement!)  Spain  need 
not  be  too  discouraged  by  being  behindhand.  The 
bony  exhausted  horses  used  within  my  own  re- 
membrance on  our  American  street-car  lines,  to 
drag  cars  laden  each  evening  to  twice  the  beasts' 
strength,  would  not  be  tolerated  to-day,  and  this 
change  has  been  wrought  by  societies  for  the  pre- 
vention of  cruelty  to  animals,  the  membership 
made  up  chiefly  of  women  and  children.  Would 
that  Spanish  ladies  could  be  pricked  to  action  by 
the  statement  of  a  living  French  novelist,  made 
in  ignorance  of  late  conditions  in  America  and 
England,  that  kindness  to  animals  is  a  Protestant 
virtue.  It  is  neither  Protestant  nor  Catholic,  but 
common  to  all  human  societies  where  women 
are  allowed  to  aid  with  their  gentler  instincts 
in  the  public  welfare  of  their  country.  The  bull 


Galicia  129 

and  tHe  man  are  sport  and  skill,  that  part  I  can 
understand.  It  is  the  agony  of  the  horses  that 
is  a  disgrace  to  these  shows,  worn-out  nags  who 
can  make  no  resistance  are  used,  and  when  the 
bull  gores  them,  their  entrails  are  thrust  back  and 
the  dying  beasts  pricked  on  to  the  fray.  Herein 
lies  the  great  difference  between  bull-fights 
to-day,  which  are  debased  money-making  spec- 
tacles only  taken  part  in  by  professionals,  and 
the  more  chivalrous  sport  of  ^earlier  times  when 
the  hidalgo  was  toreador,  and  proper  steeds  that 
could  defend  themselves  were  used. 

The  bull-fight  is  found  in  Spain  so  early  that 
its  origin  from  the  Roman  period  in  the  Penin- 
sula, or  from  the  first  Mohammedan  conquerors, 
is  disputed.  The  Cid  took  part  in  a  game,  and 
games  celebrated  the  marriage  of  Alfonso  VI I 's 
daughter  Urraca  to  the  king  of  Navarre.  Dur- 
ing the  reign  of  Isabella's  father,  Juan  II,  the 
corrida  de  toros  was  much  in  vogue.  Queen  Isa- 
bella herself  disliked  the  sport,  and  in  one  of  her 
letters  she  vows  never  to  witness  it.  On  the  birth 
of  Philip  II  in  Valladolid,  Charles  V  killed  a  bull 
in  the  arena.  The  fiestas  continued  under  the 
Hapsburg  Philips,  until  the  advent  of  the  French 
Philip  V,  in  1700.  He  so  slighted  this  national 
sport  that  gentlemen  ceased  to  take  part  in  it, 
and  it  sank  to  its  present  level.  It  is  now  so  well 
paying  an  affair  that  the  only  way  to  reform  it 


130  Heroic  Spain 

would  be  through  concerted  action  on  the  part 
of  Spanish  women.  It  is  a  crusade  worthy  of 
them. 

A  night  of  rest  in  the  hotel  at  Santiago  and 
the  painful  scene  of  the  day  before  was  somewhat 
dimmed.  Early  in  the  morning  I  started  out  to 
explore  the  old  pilgrim  city.  It  has  a  distinct 
character  of  its  own,  seldom  have  I  felt  so  de- 
cided a  place-influence.  It  is  very  solemn,  very 
gray,  very  stately  and  aloof.  On  many  of  the 
houses  the  pilgrim  shell  is  carved;  the  streets  are 
paved  with  granite  and  the  vast  hospices  are  of 
the  same  severe  stone,  moss-grown  and  damp; 
grass  also  grows  between  the  big  granite  slabs 
of  the  silent,  imposing  squares.  Santiago  does 
not  belong  to  our  age.  Modern  towns  do  not 
name  their  streets  after  twelfth-century  prelates, 
"  Street  of  Gelmiirez,  1st  Archbishop  of  Com- 
postella,"  makes  a  novel  sign. 

Here,  as  all  over  the  land,  the  Cathedral  was 
the  magnet.  I  walked  along  the  dark,  arcaded 
streets  in  a  Scotch  drizzle,  passed  under  Cardinal 
Fonseca's  college  and  came  out  in  the  plaza  before 
the  west  entrance.  The  west  front  is  a  baroque 
mass  which  those  who  can  endure  that  style  say 
is  most  successful.  I  cannot  endure  that  style. 
It  seemed  to  me  doubly  a  pity  that  this  late  front 
should  mask  the  chief  treasure  of  Galicia,  the 
Portico  de  la  Gloria,  which  stands  as  an  open 


Galicia  131 

portico  to  the  church,  fifteen  feet  within  this  west 
door. 

Enthusiastic  description  had  led  us  to  expect 
much  of  what  may  be  called  the  supreme  work 
of  Romanesque  sculpture,  in  fact,  it  was  this  por- 
tico that  had  decided  us  for  the  long  trip  to 
Galicia.  We  were  not  disappointed.  "  Es  la 
oracion  mas  sublime  que  ha  elevado  al  cielo  el  arte 
espaiiol"  Neither  photograph  nor  words  can  de- 
scribe it;  it  is  one  of  those  matchless  works  that 
body  forth  the  best  of  an  age.  The  model  of 
South  Kensington  does  not  give  its  nobility,  for 
it  is  the  setting  before  the  lofty  dim  Romanesque 
nave  that  makes  it  a  unique  thing.  When  later, 
in  Constantinople,  I  saw  Alexander's  sarcopha- 
gus, the  thought  of  Santiago  sprang  instantly 
to  my  mind.  Both  bring  a  feeling  of  sadness ;  — 
one,  simple  flowing  Greek  of  the  best  period, 
the  other,  crabbed,  original,  mediaeval,  —  they  are 
alike  in  the  absolute  sincerity  with  which  each 
embodied  the  highest  then  attainable.  Over  the 
carvings  of  both  are  faded  traces  of  color  that 
give  the  finishing  touch  of  the  exquisite. 

The  Archbishop,  Don  Pedro  Suarez,  in  1180 
gave  the  commission  for  this  portico  to  a  sculptor 
named  Mateo,  whether  Spanish  or  foreign  is  not 
known;  he  lived  in  Santiago  till  1217.  He  must 
have  been  a  close  student  of  the  Bible,  for  his 
symbolism  is  profound  and  harmonious.  Above 


132  Heroic  Spain 

the  central  arch  is  a  solemn  Christ,  of  heroic  size, 
at  his  side  the  four  Evangelists,  figures  of  youth- 
ful beauty :  the  lion  and  the  bull  have  settled  them- 
selves cozily  in  their  patron's  lap.  Large  angels 
on  either  side  carry  the  instruments  of  the  Passion. 
Very  fine  statues  of  the  Apostles  stand  against 
the  pillars  of  the  central  doorway.  In  the  tym- 
panum are  small  figures  typifying  the  Holy  City 
of  Isaiah,  and  on  its  arch  are  seated,  on  a  round- 
ing bench,  the  twenty- four  ancients  of  the  Apoca- 
lypse, with  musical  instruments  and  vases  of  per- 
fume. This  is  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  part 
of  the  portico.  For  hours  one  can  study  it. 
Some  of  the  heads  are  thrown  back  in  re  very, 
some  turned  together  in  conversation.  "  The  four 
and  twenty  ancients  fell  down  before  the  Lamb 
having  everyone  of  them  harps  and  golden  vials 
full  of  odours,  which  are  the  prayers  of  the  saints" 
(St.  John,  Rev.  V,  8) .  The  carvings  of  that  age 
were  somewhat  grotesque,  but  here  the  types  are 
ideal,  as  beautiful  in  their  way  as  Mino  da 
Fiesole  or  Rossellino.  When  Master  Mateo  had 
finished  his  work,  he  made  a  .statue  of  himself  be- 
low the  central  column  of  the  portico,  kneeling 
toward  the  altar  and  humbly  beating  his  breast; 
on  this  figure  was  written  "  architectus."  Humil- 
ity and  a  consummate  profession  of  faith  such  as 
this  went  hand  in  hand. 

It  is  anticlimax,  after  the  Portico  de  la  Gloria, 


Galicia  133 

to  speak  of  the  other  sights  of  Santiago.  On  the 
plaza  before  the  west  end  of  the  Cathedral  stands 
the  dignified  Hospital  Real,  founded  by  Isabella 
and  Ferdinand  as  a  pilgrim  inn.  Two  of  the  four 
patios  are  quaintly  carved,  and  probably  amuse 
the  convalescents  of  the  modern  hospital  lodged 
now  in  the  building.  It  was  a  joy  to  find  so  many 
of  Isabella's  good  deeds  still  bearing  fruit.  The 
nuns  took  us  down  to  the  big  kitchen,  white-tiled 
and  spotless,  where  we  saw  the  four  hundred  fresh 
eggs  that  arrive  daily  from  the  country;  the  tidy 
patients  on  the  verandas  showed  clearly  that  no 
one  suffered  privations  here.  As  we  were  leaving, 
the  old  chaplain  of  the  institution  ran  after  us  to 
beg  us  to  return  to  see  something  of  which  he  was 
evidently  vastly  proud.  When  he  ushered  us  into 
a  tiled  bathing  room  and  turned  on  the  water  that 
dashed  up  and  down  and  round  about  from  every 
kind  of  new  contrivance,  he  looked  at  us  with  a 
self-complacency  that  was  adorable,  as  if  he  said : 
"  There,  you  water-loving  English,  we  're  just 
as  fond  of  it  as  you!  "  The  excellently  managed 
institution  reminds  one  that  this  province  pro- 
duced Dona  Conception  Arenal,  sociologist  and 
political  economist,  and  withal  a  most  tender- 
hearted Christian,  whose  books  on  prison  organi- 
zation and  reform  have  been  widely  translated, 
and  are  quoted  as  authorities  by  the  leading  crim- 
inologists  of  Europe.  For  thirty  years  this  ad- 


134  Heroic  Spain 

mirable  woman  was  inspector  of  prisons.  She 
died  at  Vigo  in  1893,  and  Spain  has  since  erected 
statues  in  her  honor. 

In  Galicia,  as  in  Catalonia,  there  has  been  a  re- 
vival of  dialect  literature.  The  Gallego  tongue 
was  the  first  in  the  Peninsula  to  reach  literary  cul- 
ture, and  in  the  Middle  Ages  two  ideal  trouba- 
dours wrote  in  it.  Had  not  Alfonso  el  Sabio 
written  chiefly  in  Castilian,  thereby  fixing  that 
as  the  leading  tongue,  as  Dante  did  the  Tuscan  in 
Italy,  it  is  probable  that  the  dialect  of  Galicia 
had  prevailed.  Portuguese  and  Gallego  were  the 
same  language  up  to  the  fifteenth  century,  hence 
it  is  that  the  great  critic  Menendez  y  Pelayo  al- 
ways includes  Portuguese  writers  in  his  studies 
of  Spanish  literature. 

Galicia  is  fortunate  in  having  an  able  living  ex- 
ponent, the  Senora  Emilia  Pardo  Bazan,  whose 
novels  are  full  of  the  charmed  melancholy  of  the 
province.  The  Gallego  is  derided  in  other  parts 
of  Spain,  his  name  is  synonymous  with  boor,  for 
he  is  judged  by  the  clumsy  mozo  who  seeks  work 
in  the  south.  :<  The  more  unfortunate  a  country 
the  greater  is  the  love  of  its  sons  for  it.  Greece, 
Poland,  Hungary,  Ireland,  prove  this,  and  the 
nostalgia  is  strongest  in  those  of  Celtic  origin. 
Ask  the  rude  Gallegos  of  South  America  what 
is  their  ambition  —  *  To  return  to  the  terrina  and 
there  die '  is  the  answer." 


Galicia  135 

In  a  collection  of  essays  "De  mi  Tierra," 
Madam  Pardo  Bazan  has  told  of  the  learned 
Benedictine,  Padre  Feijoo,  the  Bacon  of  Spain, 
whose  caustic  pen  did  away  with  so  many  of  the 
superstitions  of  his  age.  It  may  be  a  bit  pedantic 
for  me  to  give  biographies  in  these  slight  sketches, 
but  it  seems  as  if  a  truer  idea  of  the  race  is  con- 
veyed in  such  lives  than  could  be  given  in  any 
other  way.  This  native  of  Galicia,  Padre  Feijoo, 
had  few  equals  in  the  Europe  of  his  time  in  liber- 
ality of  view.  He  was  born  of  hidalgo  parents 
near  Orense,  where  his  casa  solar  stands,  still  lived 
in  by  a  Feijoo  of  to-day.  He  entered  the  Bene- 
dictine Order  and  in  their  cloisters  passed  most  of 
his  long  life  of  eighty  years,  for  half  a  century  liv- 
ing in  their  Oviedo  house.  His  unflagging  indus- 
try, his  clear  intellect,  and  simple  uprightness, 
won  the  admiration  of  all  who  knew  him.  "  After 
fifteen  years'  intimate  acquaintance  with  Feijoo," 
wrote  a  scientist  of  the  day,  "  never  have  I  met,  in- 
side religion  or  out,  a  man  more  sincere,  more  can- 
did, more  declared  enemy  of  fraud  and  deceit." 
Not  till  he  was  fifty  did  Feijoo  commence  to 
write.  In  1731  appeared  the  beginning  of  his 
"  Teatro  Critico,"  essays  that  have  been  called 
the  first  step  of  Spanish  journalism,  written  as 
they  eminently  were  to  communicate  ideas  to 
others.  He  had  the  passion  to  know  why,  a  never- 
tiring  love  of  investigation.  Adopting  the  Ba- 


136  Heroic  Spain 

conian  experimental  method,  he  attacked  the 
superstitions  and  pseudo-miracles  around  him. 
I  Ay  I  de  mi  Inquisition!  Were  you  asleep  that 
you  did  not  clap  this  independent  thinker  into 
your  capacious  dungeons?  So  strong  was  Fei- 
joo's  influence  that  Benedict  XIV  curtailed  the 
number  of  feast  days  on  his  mere  suggestion. 

This  learned  Benedictine  monk  was  ahead  of 
his  age  in  many  ideas.  Are  the  stars  not  inhabited? 
he  asked.  Before  Washington,  he  maintained 
that  the  Machiavellian  theory  of  government,  in- 
trigue and  diplomacy,  which  was  then  universally 
accepted  in  Europe,  was  inferior  to  friendly  loy- 
alty and  honor.  He  preached  compassion  to  ani- 
mals generations  before  the  age  of  our  modern, 
humanitarian  theories.  With  the  painful  remem- 
brance of  the  diligence  ride  in  Galicia,  I  was  glad 
to  find  one  of  her  sons  advocating  this.  Feijoo 
stands  out  more  prominently  because  of  the  intel- 
lectual desert  around  him.  "  The  eighteenth  cen- 
tury was  an  erudite,  negative,  fatigued."  The 
Bourbons  brought  formality  and  sterility  to  spon- 
taneous Spain.  A  dry  soulless  learning  killed  the 
creative  power,  and  in  every  branch,  art,  music, 
and  literature,  the  artificial  rococo  flourished. 
The  two  exceptions  of  vitality  were  Feijoo  and 
the  painter  Goya.  Had  Padre  Feijoo  lived  in 
our  age,  he  might  have  been  that  great  man  hailed 
by  De  Maistre:  "  Attendez  que  1'affinite  naturelle 


Galicia  137 

de  la  science  et  de  la  religion  les  ait  reunies  Tune 
et  Tautre  dans  la  tete  d'un  homme  de  genie! 
Celui-la  sera  f  ameux  et  mettra  fin  au  dix-huitieme 
siecle  qui  dure  encore."  How  much  longer  are  we 
to  wait  for  him,  —  this  great  man! 

If  the  only  harrowing  scene  of  the  tour  in  Spain 
is  to  be  associated  with  Galicia,  so  is  one  of  the 
happiest,  a  day  of  such  kindly  chivalry  that  we 
felt  the  spirit  of  Isabella's  time  still  endured.  It 
was  the  chance  of  railway  travel  that  introduced 
a  modern  knight  to  us.  The  journey  back  to  Cas- 
tile from  Galicia  is  a  most  trying  one.  Some  day 
perhaps  an  enterprising  ocean  line  will  put  in  at 
Vigo  and  run  an  express  directly  across  country 
to  Madrid;  we  were  too  early  for  such  ease. 
From  Santiago  we  had  to  take  an  afternoon 
train  to  Pontevedra,  and  there  spend  the  night. 
At  5  A.  M.  (oh,  those  unforgettable,  dark,  cold 
railway  stations  of  Spain!)  we  again  took  the 
train.  It  was  dawn  before  Redondela  was 
reached,  and  exquisite  as  a  dream  seemed  the  rias, 
the  fiords  of  Galicia,  with  wooded  mountains 
sloping  to  their  shores.  It  is  not  hard  to  prophesy 
that  this  will  be  a  great  summer  resort  of  the 
future. 

At  Redondela  we  changed  trains,  getting  into 
the  express  for  Monforte,  the  only  other  occu- 
pant of  the  carriage  being  an  elderly  man,  blue- 
eyed,  very  tall  and  erect,  with  the  air  of  distinc- 


138  Heroic  Spain 

tion  so  frequently  found  among  Don  Quixote's 
countrymen.  We  had  noticed  him  the  night  before 
in  the  Pontevedra  hotel,  and  had  thought  him  an 
Englishman,  till  in  offering  some  service  about 
our  luggage  he  spoke  in  Spanish.  As  we  were 
to  spend  fifteen  hours  in  the  same  railway  car- 
riage, we  soon  entered  into  conversation.  He 
came  from  Madrid  each  summer  with  a  family  of 
sons  and  daughters  to  spend  some  months  in  a 
castle  among  the  mountains  of  Galicia.  Evi- 
dently he  was  a  lover  of  sport  and  of  country  life, 
for  as  we  ran  alongside  the  Mino  River,  with  Por- 
tugal just  across  on  the  opposite  bank,  for  hours 
he  sat  gazing  out  in  enjoyment,  and  drew  each 
beautiful  thing  to  our  notice.  At  noon  we 
reached  Monforte,  where  we  had  dinner  in  the 
station  buffet.  When  we  called  for  our  account, 
to  our  astonishment  the  waiter  told  us  it  was  set- 
tled already.  We  could  not  understand  what  had 
been  done,  till  the  proprietor  himself  came  to  ex- 
plain. It  seems  it  is  a  custom  all  over  this  gen- 
erous land,  for  a  man  when  he  is  with  a  lady  or 
has  spoken  to  her,  to  pay  for  everything  she 
orders;  tea,  luncheon,  even  her  shopping  pur- 
chases. He  does  this  with  no  offensive  ostenta- 
tion, but  so  quietly  that  he  often  slips  away 
unnoticed  and  unthanked.  Several  travelers  have 
since  told  me  that  they  too  met  this  hospitality; 
it  had  at  first  embarrassed  them,  but  as  there 


Galicia  139 

was  not  the  slightest  impertinence  nor  even 
the  personal  about  it,  as  it  was  merely  an  act  of 
chivalrous  respect,  done  with  superb  detachment, 
when  the  confusion  of  being  paid  for  by  a  stran- 
ger was  over,  they  remembered  only  the  charming 
courtesy. 

The  attentions  of  our  kind  host,  for  he  seemed 
to  look  on  two  strangers  in  his  land  as  his  guests, 
did  not  stop  at  noontime,  at  tea  he  brought  us 
platefuls  of  hot  chestnuts.  He  tried  to  while 
away  the  hours  pleasantly,  playing  games  on 
paper  in  French  and  English;  with  all  his  dig- 
nified gravity  the  Spaniard  is  not  blase.  Our 
struggles  to  learn  his  tongue  rousing  sympathy, 
it  was  from  him  we  first  heard  of  the  pretty  high- 
flown  phrases  still  in  daily  use,  how  you  bid  fare- 
well with,  Beso  a  V.  la  mano  (I  kiss  your  hand), 
or  A  los  pies  de  T.  (I  am  at  your  feet) ;  that 
the  Usted,  shortened  to  V .,  with  which  you 
address  high  or  low,  is  a  corruption  of  "  Your 
Majesty."  Somehow  there  seems  nothing  ab- 
surd in  addressing  a  Spanish  peasant  as  "  Your 
Majesty."  The  love  of  abbreviations  is  a  curious 
trait  in  a  people  with  such  leisurely  ways;  thus, 
a  row  of  cabalistic  letters  ends  a  letter:  S.  S.  S. 
Q.  B.  S.  M.3  which  means  that  your  correspon- 
dent kisses  your  hand  —  su  seguro  servidor  que 
besa  su  mano. 

Then  the  interest  which  we  evinced  in  the  insti- 


140  Heroic  Spain 

tutions  and  progress  of  Spain  made  him  put  his 
cultivated  intelligence  at  our  service,  and  we 
learned  more  in  a  day  than  in  all  the  previous 
weeks.  When  I  inquired  into  the  vexed  religious 
question  he  was  able  to  explain  much.  As  a  rule, 
republicanism  in  Spain  means  avowed  atheism 
and  socialism;  it  has  been  well  said  that  the  re- 
publicanism of  all  Latin  countries  turns  to  social 
revolution.  The  socialists  are  a  small,  but  well- 
organized  band,  international  in  character  since 
their  movements  are  directed  from  centers  like 
Paris.  They  are  chiefly  in  industrial  cities  such 
;as  Barcelona,  Valencia,  and  Bilbao,  where  secret 
.societies  of  anarchists  abound,  disguised  as  clubs 
for  scientific  study.  The  majority  being  of  the 
rabble,  repudiating  all  authority,  ("  civilization, 
that  is  the  enemy!")  their  disorders  would  be 
called  mob  uprisings  did  they  occur  in  Chicago, 
but  deceived  by  the  term  "  republicanism,"  the 
journals  of  England  and  America  gave  them 
too  lenient  a  consideration.  By  no  means  de- 
vout himself,  he  assured  us  that  what  we  saw 
on  every  side  was  for  the  most  part  very  genu- 
ine religion,  not  sentiment  with  no  result;  for  in 
those  places  where  observance  had  slackened  there 
was  a  marked  difference  in  moral  restraint,  so 
potent  a  factor  for  morality  was  religion  still  in 
Spain.  That  there  were  faults  none  denied,  but 
he  had  traveled  enough  to  know  the  flaws  of 


Galicia  141 


other  countries  too  well  to  be  despairing  of  his 
own. 

He  wrote  for  us  a  card  of  introduction  to  the 
big  hospital  of  Madrid;  he  sought  out  a  friend 
in  another  carriage,  the  son  of  the  Admiral  in 
Ferrol,  who  was  rather  up  in  statistics.  Had  we 
seen  the  asylum  near  Santiago  where  the  insane 
are  treated  with  such  success  that  noted  cures 
had  been  obtained?  Had  we  met  the  archaeolo- 
gist of  the  province,  a  canon  in  the  Cathedral? 
In  short,  from  the  questions  and  suggestions  we 
realized  that  the  average  tourist  goes  through  this 
reserved  country  half  blind.  Glad  were  we  for 
this  chance  of  insight.  When  in  the  dusk  of 
evening  it  came  time  to  descend  at  Astorga,  our 
stopping-place  for  the  night,  and  our  fellow- 
traveler  stood  there  shaking  hands,  with  warm 
friendliness  in  his  blue  eyes,  we  felt  there  was  no 
more  thoroughbred  specimen  of  manhood  than  a 
Spanish  hidalgo. 


SALAMANCA 

"  L'homme  n'est  produit  que  pour  1'infini." 
"  II  y  a  des  raisons  qui  passent  notre  raison." 
"  Se   moquer   de   la   philosophic   c'est   vraiment   philo- 
sopher." PASCAL. 

SALAMANCA  is  in  Leon  province,  and  in  compari- 
son with  the  hour  of  its  prime,  as  it  is  to-day  it 
too  is  very  like  a  sleeping  city.  It  is  hard  to  re- 
alize that  this  dull,  small  town  was  a  grandeza  de 
Espana,  ranking  with  Oxford,  Paris,  and  Bo- 
logna, that  once  10,000  students  flocked  here 
from  all  over  Europe,  and  every  young  Spaniard 
turned  here  as  naturally  as  a  modern  English- 
man to  Oxford  or  Cambridge;  Cervantes'  "  No- 
velas  Exemplares  "  give  the  picture.  To-day 
there  are  barely  a  thousand  students,  chiefly  from 
its  own  province;  among  the  ten  universities  of 
Spain  the  former  leader  takes  a  very  lowly  place. 
Madrid,  the  continuation  of  Cardinal  Ximenez* 
University  of  Alcala,  may  be  called  the  modern 
Salamanca  in  intellectual  leadership. 

In  the  Spanish  Oxford  one  looks  in  vain  for 
the  numerous  colleges  of  the  city  on  the  Isis. 
Alas!  Salamanca  is  half  a  ruin.  The  French, 
in  the  Napoleonic  invasion,  destroyed  the  whole 


Copyright,  litio,  by  Underwood  &  Underwood 

VIEW  or  SALAMANCA  FROM  THE  ROMAN  BRIDGE 


Salamanca  143 

northwest  quarter  of  the  town  to  make  fortifica- 
tions, undoing  in  a  few  brutal  hours  the  work  of 
centuries  of  culture  and  piety.  In  his  despatches 
of  1812  the  Duke  of  Wellington  wrote:  "  The 
French  among  other  acts  of  violence  have  de- 
stroyed thirteen  out  of  twenty  convents  and 
twenty  out  of  the  twenty-five  colleges  which  ex- 
isted in  this  seat  of  learning."  Twenty  out  of 
twenty-five  colleges!  The  thought  of  Oxford's 
tranquil,  age-crowned  buildings  makes  one  grasp 
the  tragic  wreck  of  the  Spanish  university ;  never 
while  in  Salamanca  could  I  forget  the  desolate 
tract  to  the  west,  lying  still  a  heap  of  ruins,  un- 
tenanted  save  by  wandering  goats,  those  nomad 
creatures  that  give  the  culminating  note  o£ 
squalor  to  deserted  districts. 

Our  train  approached  the  city  across  the  plains 
from  Zamora,  through  plantations  of  isolated 
trees  and  past  droves  of  black  sheep  whose  guard- 
ian stood  patiently  under  the  rain.  For  some  time 
in  the  distance  we  saw  the  prominent  churcK 
towers.  Salamanca  lay  on  the  old  Roman  road, 
the  Via  Lata,  that  connected  Cadiz  with  the 
north,  but  the  Roman  associations  here  are  slight. 
As  in  Zamora,  the  Cid  and  his  feats  dwarf  other 
interests,  so  here  it  is  the  picturesque  days  of  the 
fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries  that  fill  the 
mind. 

Go  down  to  the  Roman  bridge  over  the  Tormest 


144  Heroic  Spain 

and  while  away  an  hour  watching  the  passers-by, 
and  the  old  times  seem  to  live  again.  Below  in 
the  river  bed  women  wash  and  chatter  from  morn- 
ing till  night,  spreading  the  gayly-colored  clothes, 
red,  yellow,  and  purple,  over  the  stones  to  dry. 
If  it  is  Sunday,  into  the  city  pour  the  hardy  peas- 
ants for  their  one  day  of  rest  from  the  ungrate- 
ful work  of  the  fields:  girls  in  pale  blue  woolen 
stockings  and  smart,  black  pumps  sit  sideways 
behind  their  cavaliers  on  the  long-haired  nags 
whose  backs  are  often  shaved  into  a  pattern ;  now 
out  of  the  city  jogs  a  brisk  old  woman  on  her 
donkey,  laden  with  a  month's  purchases,  an  un- 
painted  rush-bottom  chair  topping  the  pile;  she 
nods  to  the  strangers,  franceses,  she  thinks,  for 
a  Spaniard  takes  all  foreigners  for  his  neighbors 
over  the  frontier:  now  a  cart  passes,  whose  shape 
and  hue  seem  taken  out  of  a  romantic  water- 
color;  then  a  young  peasant  in  wide-brimmed 
sombrero,  leather  gaiters,  silver  buttons  as  big 
as  dollars  on  his  vest,  clear-eyed  and  proud  of  car- 
riage: then,  salt  to  the  picture,  rides  a  burly  cur  a, 
sitting  well  back  on  his  tiny  ass,  a  ridiculous  fig- 
ure were  it  not  for  his  sublime  unconsciousness, 
his  innate  self-respect.  Ever  the  unspoiled,  the 
vigorous,  the  untamed!  Just  so  they  came  into 
Salamanca  in  the  past  when  students  with  swords 
and  velvet  capes  walked  the  streets,  and  so  I 
hope  they  may  do  some  hundred  years  from  now, 


Salamanca  145 

for  such  lives  of  frugal  contentment  are  un- 
equaled.  Localism  and  provinciality  have  been 
forced  on  Spain  by  nature,  and  it  is  this  very  pro- 
vincialism which  is  her  charm  for  the  traveler. 
Fresh  from  a  prosperous,  new  world,  he  may 
often  long  for  certain  changes  here,  for  more 
widely  diffused  education,  for  free  libraries,  a 
more  secure  self-government;  but  such  material 
prosperity  is  bought  with  a  price.  Remember  that 
not  in  the  length  or  breadth  of  this  land  are  to  be 
found  the  degraded  human  beings,  vicious  in  soul 
and  brutalized  in  shape  of  skull  and  feature,  such 
as  exist  by  the  thousands  in  the  slums  of  industrial 
countries.  If  the  Spanish  peasant  must  lose  his 
hardy  independence,  if  his  frugal  contentment, 
his  heroic  patience  must  pass  with  the  old  order 
of  things  (that  lets  a  heap  of  ruins  in  the  heart  of 
a  city  lie  untouched  during  a  hundred  years! ) 
I  cannot  help  wondering  whether  the  price  is  not 
too  high  to  pay.  I  am  repeating  myself,  but  the 
words  come  to  one  each  day  —  it  is  beyond  hu- 
man nature  to  be  consistent  in  Spain;  she  has  the 
faculty,  despite  her  glaring  faults,  of  battering- 
down  one's  Philistine  certainty  of  northern  su- 
periority. 

The  bridge,  the  plaza,  and  the  cathedral;  study 
your  types  there  and  you  begin  to  know  the 
real  Spaniard.  Not  soon  shall  I  forget,  at  Merida, 
in  wild  Estremadura,  as  I  loitered  on  the  bridge, 


146  Heroic  Spain 

a  countryman  stepping  forward  with  the  digni- 
fied, proud  look  of  his  class :  "  i  Es  mas  bonita  que 
Paris?  "  he  asked,  the  interrogatory  note  added 
only  in  courtesy,  so  sure  was  he  of  my  affirmative. 
Sleepy  little  Merida,  all  a  ruin,  Knights  Temp- 
lars' castle  as  well  as  Roman  theater  and  aque- 
duct, to  the  fellow  paisano  of  Pizarro  and  Cortes, 
was  finer  than  Paris.  It  is  glimpses  like  this 
that  make  the  prejudiced  stranger  judge  the  so- 
called  backwardness  of  the  country  in  kinder 
fashion.  Where  else  could  one  see  stately-mov- 
ing cream-colored  oxen  pass  unnoticed  through 
the  chief  thoroughfare  of  a  capital,  a  common 
sight  in  the  Puerta  del  Sol  of  Madrid,  where  else 
will  the  customs  officer  of  a  big  town  stand  to 
count  with  a  pointing  finger  the  skipping  sheep 
driven  past  him,  as  on  the  Alcantara  bridge  at 
Toledo,  where  else  will  groups  of  goats  be  milked 
from  door  to  door  in  a  great  commercial  city  like 
Barcelona?  Salamanca,  being  the  center  of  an 
agricultural  district  and  off  the  express  route, 
presents  daily,  scenes  from  the  Georgics. 

Architecturally  the  old  university  city,  despite 
her  disasters,  is  of  first  importance.  She  has  two 
Cathedrals,  the  smaller  more  perfect  one  of  1100, 
finding  shelter  by  the  side  of  its  huge  successor, 
to  whom  it  yielded  its  rights  as  metropolitan  in 
1560.  The  exterior  of  the  new  Cathedral  is  over- 
rich  and  meaningless,  it  promises  little  for  what 


Salamanca  147 

it  holds  within,  where  the  lofty  Gothic  piers  and 
arches  have  so  impressive  an  air  of  majesty  that 
architectural  flaws  are  forgotten.  It  proves  how 
much  longer  Gothic  lasted  in  Spain  than  else- 
where in  Europe.  The  triforium  here  is  replaced 
by  an  elaborately-carved  balcony  that  runs  round 
the  church,  and  high  up  are  medallions  colored 
with  gold  and  Eastern  hues,  an  enamel-like  deco- 
ration which  has  been  beautifully  and  sparingly 
used;  the  inner  circle  of  the  clearstory  window 
and  the  round  windows  of  the  west  end,  have  jew- 
eled chains  of  color  that  modern  churches  could 
well  imitate.  As  usual,  the  side  chapels  are  full  of 
treasures,  and  the  sacristy  boasts  the  very  crucifix 
the  Cid  carried  in  battle.  There  is  one  bad  de- 
fect :  its  apse  has  not  the  dim,  mysterious  curve  of 
a  cathedral,  the  east  end  being  square,  like  a  cold 
secular  hall.  Nestling  under  this  gigantic  pile  is 
the  loveliest  thing  in  all  Salamanca,  the  catedral 
vieja,  its  title  in  the  old  Latin  proverb  "  fortis 
Salmantina."  It  is  a  small,  Romanesque-transi- 
tion church,  unused,  but  in  good  repair,  left  un- 
changed by  a  sensible  bishop  when  the  services 
were  removed  to  its  more  pretentious  rival.  The 
carvings  of  the  capitals  are  boldly  massive,  there 
is  a  noticeably  good,  painted  retablo,  and  among 
the  numerous  tombs  —  a  Gregorovius  could  make 
a  fascinating  volume  of  Spain's  alabaster  knights 
and  bishops!  —  there  is  one  that  is  specially  ap- 


148  Heroic  Spain 

pealing.  It  is  in  a  chapel  opening  off  the  clois- 
ters ;  a  warrior  in  armor  lies  on  his  sarcophagus, 
beside  him  his  wife,  with  a  child's  innocence  of 
face,  dressed  in  the  nun's  robe  worn  while  her 
lord  was  fighting  the  Moors,  with  high  pattens 
on  her  feet,  a  dainty  little  Castilian  gentle- 
woman, mother  of  the  prelate  whose  stately  tomb 
fills  the  center  of  the  chapel.  The  old  Cathedral 
is  so  tucked  in  among  buildings,  that  only  one 
view  of  the  exterior  can  be  got,  from  a  terrace 
leading  from  the  south  door  of  the  later  church, 
a  view  that  a  New  Englander  will  return  to  often 
with  a  homesick  feeling,  for  just  such  a  scaly-tiled 
tower,  window  for  window,  line  for  line  alike, 
rises  in  Copley  Square,  Boston.  This  cupola 
shows  Byzantine  influences  since  Spanish  Roman- 
esque was  orientalized  through  Mediterranean 
trading. 

Of  all  the  memories  of  a  journey  in  Spain  the 
happiest  are  the  hours  spent  in  her  cathedrals, 
the  starting  out  expectant,  often  with  no  map  or 
book,  for  there  are  frequent  glimpses  of  the 
church  towers  to  guide;  the  first  entering  the 
noble  structure  which  man's  living  enthusiasm 
raised,  the  first  passing  from  one  chapel  to  an- 
other in  astonishment  at  the  treasures  they  guard. 
Pierre  Loti  has  a  sketch  on  Burgos  Cathedral, 
seen  once  only  on  a  late  afternoon,  just  as  the 
verger  was  closing  it,  and  he  describes  how  un- 
happily he  was  affected  by  the  lavish  material 


Salamanca  149 

wealth.  Pure  artist  that  he  is  in  his  theory  of 
seizing  on  a  swift  impression,  the  test  may  be 
successful  for  Philae  or  for  the  Parthenon,  but 
it  will  not  do  for  a  Spanish  cathedral,  which  is 
too  complex,  and  can  well  hide  its  soul  from  the 
hasty  tourist.  May  M.  Loti  forgive  me  for  say- 
ing it,  but  certainly  the  way  in  which  he  saw  Bur- 
gos differs  little  from  the  lightning-flash  method 
of  the  Yankee  tourist  he  despises.  I  think  he 
must  have  had  a  cross  indigestion  that  late  after- 
noon, or  perhaps  it  was  his  Huguenot  blood  ris- 
ing in  protest.  Another  of  his  countrymen, 
equally  sensitive,  "  le  delicat  Joubert,"  gives  a 
less  on-the-surface  judgment:  "  The  pomp  and 
magnificence  with  which  the  Church  is  re- 
proached are  in  truth  the  result  and  proof  of  her 
incomparable  excellence.  From  whence,  let  me 
ask,  have  come  this  power  of  hers  and  these  ex- 
cessive riches  except  from  the  enchantment  into 
which  she  threw  all  the  world?  She  had  the  tal- 
ent of  making  herself  loved,  and  the  talent  of 
making  men  happy  ...  it  is  from  thence  she 
drew  her  power." 

Spain  is  richer  than  all  other  lands  in  church 
furniture:  except  for  the  uprising  of  1835  against 
the  monasteries,  a  movement  more  political  than 
religious,  there  has  been  no  terrible  iconoclastic 
mania,  such  as  in  France  and  England ;  the  cities 
which  were  looted,  like  Valladolid  and  Sala- 


150  Heroic  Spain 

manca,  during  the  French  invasion,  suffered  in  a 
different  way.  Then,  too,  Spanish  cathedrals  do 
not  part  with  their  art  treasures ;  the  gifts  of  per- 
sonal and  inappropriate  jewels  when  they  have 
accumulated  too  needlessly  are  sometimes  sold  for 
the  benefit  of  the  church,  but  the  art  treasures 
made  for  the  service  of  the  Altar  are  not  parted 
with.  In  Valencia  it  is  told  that  Rothschild's 
agent  tried  in  vain  to  buy  Benvenuto  Cellini's 
silver  pax  there:  $10,000  $15,000,  $20,000,  he 
offered :  "  Las  cosas  de  la  catedral  no  se  venden" 
was  the  answer.  "  $50,000,"  said  the  agent.  The 
Cathedral  was  poor  and  needed  repairs.  "  It  is 
useless,"  was  the  firm  answer  of  the  Chapter, 
"  We  do  not  sell  the  things  of  the  Altar."  In 
Salamanca  the  verger  told  us  that  an  English- 
man had  offered  an  immense  sum  for  the  iron 
screen  round  the  tomb  of  Bishop  Anaya  (his 
mother  the  dainty  little  lady  in  pattens)  and 
though  the  screen  was  in  an  unused  chapel  of 
the  catedral  vieja,  it  was  refused.  These  unsul- 
lied temples  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  where  stately 
ceremonials  are  still  an  every-day  occurrence,  dif- 
fer in  every  city,  the  carven  wealth  of  Burgos,  the 
soaring  grace  of  Leon,  the  solid  grandeur  of 
Santiago,  Toledo,  a  dream  of  His  House,  Seville, 
rising  imposing  past  expectation,  the  small,  dark 
symmetry  of  Barcelona,  the  solemn  space  of 
prayer  before  Avila's  high  altar,  Sigiienza's 


Salamanca  151 

tomb-filled  chapels,  Saragossa,  draped  with  price- 
less Flemish  tapestries  for  the  feast,  Palencia  dim 
and  holy  at  daybreak,  worship-bowed  Lugo, — 
indelible  memories  of  beauty  and  exaltation,  the 
cathedrals  of  Spain  are  not  mere  artistic  memori- 
als of  the  past,  their  soul  is  not  fled.  Such 
churches  cannot  but  have  an  influence  on  the 
people  among  whom  they  rise.  If  on  one  of  dif- 
ferent race  they  impress  themselves  with  the  actu- 
ality of  a  living  experience,  what  must  they  mean 
to  those  whose  childhood  and  old  age  have  known 
them  in  solemn  moments.  I  came  across  an  auto- 
biographical bit  by  the  novelist  Alacon,  describ- 
ing the  influence  on  him  of  one  of  these  great 
churches  of  the  past.  He  grew  up  in  the  small 
Andalusian  city  of  Gaudix,  like  many  Spanish 
towns  its  great  day  being  well  over;  the  only 
grandeur  left,  the  only  palace  inhabited,  was  the 
iglesia  mayor:  "  From  the  Cathedral  I  first 
learned  the  revealing  power  of  architecture,  there 
first  heard  music  and  first  grew  to  admire  pic- 
tures; there  also  in  solemn  feasts,  mid  incense, 
lights,  and  the  swell  of  the  organ,  I  dreamed  of 
poetry  and  divined  a  world  different  from  what 
surrounded  me.  Thus  faith  and  beauty,  religion 
and  inspiration,  ambition  and  piety  were  born 
united  in  my  soul." 

On  the  way  to  the  Cathedrals  each  day  we 
passed  through  the  arcaded  plaza,  which  at  the 


152  Heroic  Spain 

noon  and  evening  hours  was  thronged  with  an 
animated  crowd ;  we  noticed  once  more  the  dem- 
ocratic relation  between  the  classes,  smart  officers 
in  pale  blue  uniforms  strolled  up  and  down  chat- 
ting with  plain  countrymen  whose  capes,  tossed 
over  the  shoulder,  let  the  gaudy  red  and  green 
velvet  facing  be  seen.  The  daily  walk  brought  us 
past  the  House  of  the  Shells,  whose  walls  are 
studded  with  the  pilgrim  emblem,  and  one  day 
as  I  paused  to  look  into  the  lovely  inner  court,  the 
owner  came  out,  prayer-book  in  hand,  on  her  way 
to  church,  and  with  the  grave  courtesy  of  her 
race,  she  invited  the  stranger  in  to  examine  her 
romantic  dwelling.  Most  of  the  buildings  in  the 
city  are  a  light  brown  sandstone  that  suits  the 
gorgeous  surface  decoration  of  Isabella's  period, 
here  seen  in  its  full  glory.  There  is  no  pure 
early- Gothic  in  the  city;  Romanesque-transition 
is  found  in  the  old  Cathedral,  and  late  florid- 
Gothic  in  the  new  Cathedral,  later  still  some  ba- 
roque extravagances,  since  Salamanca  claims  a 
doubtful  honor  as  the  birthplace  of  that  expo- 
nent of  bad  taste,  Jose  Churriguera.  But  the 
style  that  is  supreme  here  is  the  Plateresque,  the 
silversmith  period  when  late-Gothic  and  Ren- 
aissance met:  the  fa9ades  seem  as  if  molded  in 
clay,  so  lavish  is  their  work.  In  one  respect  Sal- 
amanca has  been  more  fortunate  than  its  rival 
Oxford,  in  having  used  a  stone  soft  in  appear- 


Salamanca  153 

ance,  but  so  durable  that  the  chiseling  is  almost  as 
finished  to-day  as  when  first  cut.  Everywhere  in 
the  town  this  Plateresque  work  is  found ;  at  times 
more  Renaissance  than  Gothic,  as  in  Espiritu 
Santo,  a  convent  like  Las  Huelgas  for  noble 
ladies,  or  as  in  the  beautiful  patio  of  the  Irish 
College;  the  Dominican  church  of  San  Esteban 
is  more  Gothic  than  Plateresque. 

Like  the  Jesuits,  the  second  of  the  monastic 
orders  whose  cradle  is  Spain,  may  well  be  proud 
of  the  record  in  its  native  land.  The  society  of 
Ignatius  can  boast  besides  its  saints,  scholars  like 
Ripalda,  Lainez,  Salmeron,  Isla,  Suarez,  Mari- 
ana, the  great  historian,  and  Hervas  y  Panduro, 
"  the  father  of  philology,"  who  has  been  credited 
by  Professor  Max  Miiller  with  "one  of  the  most 
brilliant  discoveries  in  the  history  of  the  science 
of  language."  And  the  Dominicans  can  claim  a 
de  Soto,  a  Melchor  Cano,  Luis  de  Granada,  Las 
Casas,  defender  of  the  Indians,  and,  fame  of  this 
special  monastery  of  Santo  Domingo,  a  Diego 
de  Deza,  the  protector  of  Columbus.  With  this 
learned  man,  tutor  to  Isabella's  only  son,  lodged 
the  discoverer  years  before  his  memorable  voyage, 
and  it  was  in  a  room  called  De  Profundis,  leading 
from  the  cloisters,  that  he  first  explained  his  the- 
ories to  the  community  who  espoused  his  cause 
with  perseverance,  in  opposition  to  the  stupid  sa- 
vants of  the  University.  They,  appointed  by  the 


154  Heroic  Spain 

Queen  to  investigate  his  claims,  found  them  "vain 
and  unpractical,"  not  worthy  of  serious  notice. 
On  the  400th  anniversary  of  Columbus'  discov- 
ery, a  memorial  statue  was  put  up  in  the  square 
near  the  mediseval  tower  of  Clavero :  on  the  ped- 
estal are  reliefs  of  his  two  patrons,  Isabella,  and 
Fray  Diego  de  Deza,  "  gloria  de  la  orden  de 
Santo  Domingo,  protector  constante  de  Cristobal 
Colon" 

Imposing  as  is  San  Esteban,  the  triumph  of 
the  Catholic  Kings'  heraldic  style  of  architecture 
is  the  fa£ade  of  the  University  Library,  as  auto- 
biographic of  its  age  as  is  Santiago's  Portico  de 
la  Gloria  of  an  earlier  century.  It  is  one  mass  of 
delicate  carving,  badges,  medalions,  and  scrolls, 
increasing  in  size  as  it  rises,  so  that  an  effect  of 
uniformity  is  obtained.  There  is  the  true  ring  of 
that  chivalrous  generation  in  the  inscription, 
'  The  Kings  to  the  University,  and  this  to  the 
Kings,"  you  raise  your  head  proudly  with  a  flash 
of  the  eye,  feeling  for  a  moment  that  you  are  al- 
most a  Spaniard  yourself. 

Opposite  the  library's  fa$ade  is  a  statue  of  one 
of  the  University's  noted  men,  that  attractive  per- 
sonality, Fray  Luis  de  Leon.  Tall,  stalwart,  for 
he  came  of  a  warrior  race  of  Spanish  grandees, 
ascetic,  with  intellectual  forehead,  a  man  capable 
of  sainthood,  of  the  type  noble,  he  faces  the  school 
where  he  studied  as  a  youth  and  passed  a  later 


----- 


FACADE  OF  THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY,  SALAMANCA 


Salamanca  155 

life  in  research  and  teaching.  In  Luis  de  Leon 
is  found  an  equilibrium  of  character,  a  magnan- 
imity united  with  genius,  which  often  distin- 
guished the  men  born  in  the  siglo  de  oro.  This 
Augustinian  monk  was  a  deep  theologian,  ahead 
of  his  times,  as  most  deep  thinkers  are;  he  made 
a  translation  of  the  Songs  of  Songs  too  advanced 
for  the  age,  and  his  enemies  accused  his  ortho- 
doxy to  the  Inquisition.  For  five  years  he  lived 
in  confinement,  and  it  was  during  this  semi-im- 
prisonment that  he  wrote  his  great  mystic  book, 
"  Los  Nombres  de  Cristo,"  and  also  some  of  his 
lyrics.  The  University  remained  loyal  to  him 
by  refusing  to  place  another  lecturer  in  his  seat; 
then  when  he  had  justified  himself  before  the 
Holy  Office,  he  was  set  at  liberty,  and  a  host  of 
friends  accompanied  him  back  to  his  post.  He 
entered  the  lecture  hall  quietly,  after  his  five  years 
of  absence,  and  opened  the  discourse  with  rare 
tact,  a  generous,  high-minded  overlooking  of  per- 
sonal rancour:  "Gentlemen,  as  we  were  saying 
the  other  day."  This  famous  mot  of  Luis  de 
Leon,  "  como  deciamos  ayer"  shows  a  quality 
unexpected  in  Spain,  but  characteristic  often  of 
her  sons,  that  of  amenity,  a  kindly  tolerance  of 
the  world's  foibles,  found  in  Cervantes,  and  to 
show  it  has  not  died  out,  this  same  amenity 
was  a  predominating  trait  of  the  late  distin- 
guished novelist,  Don  Juan  Valera.  Luis  de 


156  Heroic  Spain 

Leon,  true  follower  of  his  patron  Augustine, 
knew  that  there  is  no  sin  that  one  man  commits 
that  all  men  are  not  capable  of,  if  not  helped  by 
God.  "  Even  while  he  aspires,  man  errs." 

Had  the  erudite  monk  been  merely  a  scholar, 
he  had  been  a  personality  in  his  own  day,  but 
would  not  be  alive  for  us ;  but  he  can  claim  an  en- 
during fame.  Professor  Menendez  y  Pelayo  calls 
him  the  most  exalted  of  Spanish  lyric  poets, 
and  names  his  "  Ascension,"  "  Al  Apartami- 
ento,"  "  A  Salinas,"  "  A  Felipe  Ruiz,"  "  Alma 
Region  Lucient,"  "  La  Noche  Serena,"  as  the  six 
most  beautiful  of  Spanish  lyrics.  Learn  them 
by  heart,  he  says,  and  they  will  astonish  you  with 
each  repetition.  Luis  de  Leon  had  the  Words- 
worthian  note  of  simple  living  and  high  think- 
ing, of  a  personal  love  of  nature,  long  before  the 
Lake  School:  the  "Ode  to  Retirement"  might 
have  been  penned  at  Grasmere.  Everything  led 
his  soul  to  God;  he  fed  on  the  mystics  and  rose 
to  their  height  and  serenity  of  thought.  From 
his  love  of  the  classics  came  his  sobriety  of  form 
and  purity  of  phrase;  he  is  a  true  Horacian,  pen- 
etrated as  well  by  the  spirit  of  the  great  Hebrew 
writers,  with  the  espiritu  cristiano  added,  yet 
though  drawing  his  culture  from  many  sources 
he  is  personal  and  modern.  Such  praise  from  the 
great  critic  sends  one  to  an  enthusiastic  study 
of  Fray  Luis,  and  a  knowledge  of  his  poems 


Salamanca  157 

makes  the  visit  to  his  tomb  in  Salamanca  more 
than  one  of  mere  curiosity. 

Like  most  of  the  cities  and  villages  of  Leon 
province,  this  one  too  lies  asleep,  resting  on  its 
former  honors,  though  there  are  hints,  such  as  the 
new  hospital,  that  she  is  rousing  herself  to  life. 
She  feels  a  confidence  in  her  own  future,  as  is 
subtly  shown  in  the  decoration  of  the  plaza,  where 
empty  spaces  are  left  for  the  names  of  coming 
great  men.  It  is  with  this  city  of  the  past  that 
the  most  homelike  memory  of  our  tour  in  Spain 
is  associated,  the  happy  hour  round  an  English 
tea-table  eating  bread  and  butter,  and  chatting  at 
last,  oh  so  eagerly,  in  one's  native  tongue.  It 
was  the  rector  of  the  Irish  college  who  gave  us 
this  delightful  taste  of  home,  and  fresh  from  six 
weeks  of  freezing,  stone-paved  rooms,  of  cinna- 
mon-flavored chocolate,  how  we  appreciated  his 
hospitality!  The  school  of  young  seminarians 
is  housed  in  one  of  the  five  remaining  of  the  Uni- 
versity buildings,  but  only  moved  here  when  the 
original  college,  founded  by  Philip  II  and  ded- 
icated to  St.  Patrick,  was  demolished  by  Ney  and 
Marmont's  soldiery. 

We  found  our  host  in  his  library  poring  over 
a  Greek  book  with  a  professor  from  the  Univer- 
sity, and  we  were  welcomed  with  the  heart-warm- 
ing kindness  of  his  native  land.  The  professor 
obviously  hoped  the  invading  Americans  would 


158  Heroic  Spain 

not  tarry  long,  but  he  little  knew  that  a  Celtic 
host  in  the  heart  of  Spain  and  a  cozy  tea-table  at 
the  critical  hour  of  a  raw,  bleak  day  made  a  com- 
bination not  to  be  resisted;  we  lingered  into  the 
late  afternoon  and  left  reluctantly  indeed.  I 
would  wish  for  all  travelers  a  friendly  visit  to  the 
Colegio  de  Nobles  Irlandeses,  that  they  might 
see  the  tall,  northern-looking  lads  pacing  up  and 
down  the  sculptured  sixteenth-century  courtyard, 
might  pause  in  the  Chapel,  and  look  out  from  the 
^library  windows  over  the  city,  with  a  genial  cice- 
Tone  to  name  the  churches  and  colleges;  then  Sal- 
amanca would  not  seem  a  dead  city,  but  a  peace- 
ful, contented  survival  of  the  past. 


SEGOVIA. 

"  No  hay  un  pueblo  esclavo- 

Si  no  lo  quiere  ser: 
i  Cantad,  espanoles ! 

Cantad !     Cantad !  " 
(Hymn  sung  May,  1908,  for  the  centenary  of  Dos  de  Mayo.') 

WE  reached  Segovia  at  five  o'clock  in  the  early; 
morning  of  November  first  after  an  indescribably, 
fatiguing  day  and  night  of  travel,  the  one  con- 
fusion of  our  tour  in  Spain,  and  partly  owing  to 
a  mistake  in  the  usually  reliable  guide  book.  It 
may  be  of  help  to  other  travelers  if  I  describe 
this  misadventure.  On  returning  from  Galicia, 
we  had  left  the  express  route  at  Astorga,  and 
pausing  there  a  night,  took  the  local  line  south 
to  Zamora  and  Salamanca.  After  a  stay  of  some 
days  in  the  old  university  city,  we  were  lured  out 
to  a  small  town,  fifteen  miles  away,  Alba  de 
Tormes,  where  St.  Teresa  died.  It  seemed  un- 
necessary to  return  to  Salamanca  in  order  to  go 
on  to  Avila,  since  a  diligence  ran  to  Avila  from 
a  town  not  far  from  Alba  de  Tormes.  Our  book 
gave  the  distance  of  this  ride  as  fourteen  miles, 
whereas  fourteen  leagues,  more  than  three  times 
fourteen  miles,  would  be  nearer  the  truth.  For, 


160  Heroic  Spain 

on  reaching  Alba  we  found  it  was  a  diligence 
journey  of  over  ten  hours;  with  the  roads  in  a 
frightful  condition  after  a  month's  rain,  the  trip 
was  out  of  the  question.  So  spending  the  night 
at  Alba  de  Tormes,  we  went  back  to  Salamanca, 
there  to  find  it  was  not  the  special  day  for  the 
train  that  connects  directly  with  the  express  route 
south.  Whereupon  it  seemed  best,  rather  than 
to  wait  a  couple  of  days  for  this  train,  to  take 
the  long  trip  round  by  Zamora  and  Toro  to  the 
junction  Medina  del  Campo,  whence  the  express 
route  to  Madrid  branches,  one  line  passing  by 
Avila,  another  by  Segovia. 

It  happened  to  be  eight  minutes  before  the 
starting  of  the  train,  when  I  went  to  the  ticket 
office  at  Salamanca  with  my  carnet  kilometrique, 
yet  nevertheless  the  agent  refused  me  the  tickets, 
saying  that  his  office  closed  five  minutes  before  the 
starting  of  each  train.  "  But  there  are  yet  eight 
minutes,"  I  exclaimed.  His  personal  watch  said 
five ;  so  we  were  obliged  to  start  without  the  usual 
complementary  tickets.  We  decided  to  descend 
at  the  first  stop  and  there  have  our  kilometrics 
torn  off,  but  before  reaching  this  station  the  con- 
ductor came  to  collect  tickets,  and  by  his  face, 
false  and  mobile,  we  knew  we  were  in  for  a 
struggle.  We  explained  our  dilemma  and  offered 
the  one  peseta,  ninety  centimes,  which  was 
marked  in  his  book  and  our  own,  as  the  full  first 


Segovia  161 

class  tariff  for  twelve  kilometers.  He  contemp- 
tuously refused  and  demanded  eight  pesetas  each 
for  that  .short  ride  of  eight  miles.  We  did  not 
hesitate  to  refuse;  whereupon  when  we  reached 
the  stopping  station  he  tried  by  confused  expla- 
nations to  prevent  the  agent  there  from  giving 
us  the  necessary  complementary  tickets.  But 
fortunately  in  the.  hurry  to  procure  them  during 
the  few  minutes  of  our  pause,  I  had  stumbled  in 
stepping  from  the  carriage  £nd  slightly  cut  my 
hand  on  the  pebbles.  This  roused  the  Spanish 
sense  of  chivalry  and  the  agent  moved  aside  the 
conductor  and  gave  me  what  I  asked.  We  again 
offered  this  latter  the  lawful  fare  for  the  eight 
miles  we  had  ridden  without  tickets,  and  again  he 
demanded  eight  pesetas.  On  reaching  Zamora, 
he  boldly  brought  up  the  Chief  of  that  station,  a 
trickster  in  league  with  him,  and  both  demanded 
the  unjust  fare.  A  Spanish  gentleman  was  pass- 
ing, and  seeing  two  ladies  in  trouble,  stopped  to 
ask  if  he  could  be  of  assistance.  When  we  ex- 
plained the  case,  he  asked  us  to  give  him  the  law- 
ful fare  and  turning  to  the  station-master  and 
the  conductor,  presented  it  to  them  with  a  scath- 
ing rebuke:  like  beaten  dogs  they  slunk  away. 
Several  times  gentlemen  came  to  our  aid  in  this 
way,  as  if  it  hurt  their  pride  to  have  their  race  so 
misrepresented. 

It  is  this  petty  thieving  among  a  class  that 


1 6a  Heroic  Spain 

should  be  above  it,  such  as  postal  clerks  and  rail- 
way officials,  that  rouses  the  traveler's  harsh  crit- 
icisms of  Spain  and  makes  him  so  unjust  to  her. 
The  radical  cure  lies  in  the  men  being  better  paid, 
for  their  salaries  are  such  pittances  that  many  of 
them  look  on  extortion  as  their  right.  The  tourist 
can  do  something  toward  lessening  the  abuse, 
by  firmly  refusing  to  be  cheated.  Our  experi- 
ence was  that  firmness  always  won  the  battle;  if 
one  is  of  a  fiery  temperament  there  is  a  scene,  if 
one  is  phlegmatic,  one  sits  immovable  as  a  rock 
and  lets  the  other  storm.  If  one  yields  finally  one 
has  the  scene  as  well  as  the  putting  of  oneself  in 
the  wrong. 

To  continue  our  day  of  ill-luck.  From  Zamora, 
we  crawled  along  the  dull,  local  line  to  the  junc- 
tion Medina  del  Campo,  which  we  reached  at 
eleven  at  night.  We  then  changed  our  plans  and 
got  tickets  for  Segovia,  deciding  to  leave  Avila 
till  later.  At  Medina  we  spent  six  weary  hours 
in  the  waiting  room,  strolling  up  and  down  the 
windy  platform,  entering  the  buffet  now  and 
then  to  drink  coffee,  trying  to  rouse  imaginative 
interest  by  thinking  this  was  the  spot  where  Isa- 
bella the  Queen  had  died.  But  in  vain,  it  was 
too  dismal.  How  we  abused  Baedeker!  And 
how  we  abused  Spain  and  her  railway  system! 
Trains  came  and  went,  men  muffled  in  their 
cloaks  entered  and  left  the  dark  waiting  room, 


Segovia  163 

we  the  only  impatient  ones.  A  Spaniard  accepts 
such  things  in  full  piety.  Whoever  heard  of 
going  faster  than  twenty  miles  an  hour  and  what 
more  natural  than  to  wait  in  a  station  between 
trains  half  a  night? 

At  two  o'clock  that  raw  windy  morning  we 
boarded  the  express  to  Segovia  and  finding  the 
ladies'  compartment  full,  for  we  were  now  on  the 
direct  rout  from  Paris,  we  had  to  force  ourselves 
into  the  carriage  with  two  furiously  cross,  sleepy 
Frenchmen. 

High,  cold  Segovia,  almost  3,000  feet  above 
the  sea !  A  wind,  de  todos  los  demonios,  was  blow- 
ing that  bleak  first  of  November,  and  to  give 
the  final  small  touch  of  ill-luck,  it  lifted  and  bore 
away  to  the  mysterious  darkness  outside,  a  treas- 
ured veil  that  the  sun  had  at  length  toned  to  a 
rare  tint.  We  stumbled  into  the  ill-lighted  sta- 
tion-buffet for  more  hot  coffee,  sending  the  lug- 
gage ahead  to  the  sleeping  hotel;  for  the  faithful 
hotel-omnibus  had  been  there  waiting  as  usual. 
Strange  memories  remain  of  Spain's  station  res- 
taurants, —  the  flitting  waiters  filling  the  bowls 
of  coffee  for  the  silent  travelers,  (no  man  is  more 
silent  than  a  traveling  Spaniard) ;  —  frugal  en- 
during scenes,  not  a  touch  of  comfort,  one  eats 
to  live  indeed.  "The  French  taste,  the  Ger- 
mans devour,  the  Italians  feast,  the  Spaniards  se 
alimentan! " 


164  Heroic  Spain 

As  the  dawn  was  breaking  we  left  the  station 
and  walked,  buffeted  by  the  gale,  through  the 
mournful  streets  that  lead  to  the  town,  passing 
on  the  way  the  Artillery  Academy,  where  the 
country's  crack  regiments  are  trained.  As  we  de- 
scended to  the  market  place  below  the  steep  hill 
on  which  Segovia  is  built,  a  sight  greeted  us  that 
repaid  a  thousand  fold  for  the  dreary  day  and 
night  of  unnecessary  travel,  for  guide-book 
blunders,  personal  stupidity,  dishonest  officials, 
collarless,  cross  Frenchmen  and  even  lost  automo- 
bile veils.  For  there,  rising  one  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  in  noble  dignity  and  proportion,  its 
boulders  held  together  by  their  own  weight,  with- 
out cement  or  clamping,  stood  the  giant  Roman 
aqueduct  that  Trajan  left  his  native  land,  and 
framed  by  its  arches  were  hills,  villages,  and 
churches,  under  a  sky  of  delicate  rose.  Never  was 
there  a  lovelier  sunrise,  fragile,  shell-like,  dewy. 

We  climbed  the  steps  that  mount  to  the  city  be- 
side the  aqueduct,  pausing  again  and  again  to 
look  at  the  stupendous  thing.  Then  we  passed 
through  quiet  streets,  with  Romanesque  doorways 
at  every  step  (Segovia  with  Avila  has  the  best 
portals  in  Spain)  till  we  reached  the  hotel. 
Though,  later,  the  night  in  Medina  del  Campo 
station  revenged  itself  in  a  twenty  hours'  sleep, 
we  were  now  too  deeply  fatigued  to  rest,  and  so 
soon  were  afoot  again.  A  stone's  throw  brought 


Segovia  165 

us  to  the  central  square  of  Segovia,  on  one  side  of 
which  is  prominent  the  apse  of  the  late- Gothic 
Cathedral.  We  pushed  beyond  it,  here  and  there 
pausing  to  study  some  ancient  doorway  or  to  en- 
ter a  carved  courtyard,  till  at  length  the  street 
ended  in  the  big  open  space  before  the  superbly 
set  Alcazar,  and  we  looked  out  on  that  memor- 
able view. 

With  the  towering  Roman  aqueduct  on  one 
side  of  the  town  and  this  Caslle  at  the  other,  Se- 
govia may  claim  to  be  one  of  the  most  pictur- 
esquely set  cities  in  the  world.  The  view  from 
the  Plaza  de  la  Reina  Victoria  before  the  Alca- 
zar is  one  of  the  unforgettable  sights  of  the  Pen- 
insula, of  the  inmost  fiber  of  Castile.  On  the  hor- 
izon lies  one  of  Spain's  sad,  isolated  villages.  A! 
winding  road  leads  to  it,  along  which  plod  the 
familiar  carriers  of  the  land,  brothers  of  Sancho's 
patient  Rucio ;  the  rocky  hills  stretch  away,  dotted 
with  ancient  churches.  Close  to  the  city  lie  oases 
of  trees  and  gardens  such  as  the  monastery  en- 
closure of  La  Parral,  with  its  noticeable  stone 
pines.  The  Alcazar  with  its  bartizan  towers  is 
built  on  a  lofty  crag  that  rises  like  the  prow  of  a 
giant  ship  above  the  meeting  of  two  bosky  little 
streams,  the  Eresma  which  yielded  the  "  trout  of 
exceeding  greatness  "  whereon  Charles  I  of  Eng- 
land supped  in  this  castle,  and  the  peaceful  brook, 
Clamores.  Thus  in  one  landscape  are  united 


1 66  Heroic  Spain 

hardy  uplands,  leafy  parks,  a  mediaeval  town 
with  church  towers  and  fortified  castle,  making 
a  scene  whose  individuality  is  beyond  beauty, 
whose  profound  charm  never  palls.  Here  one 
communes  with  the  silent,  inner  soul  of  Spain,  the 
land  of  Isabella,  of  Garcilaso,  of  Teresa,  of  Cer- 
vantes, not  a  trace  of  whose  spirit  is  found  in  Ma- 
drid, but  in  such  spots  as  Toledo  and  Avila  and 
this. 

Segovia  merits  a  prolonged  stay.  There  were 
two  Englishwomen  in  our  hotel,  who  had  passed 
months  painting  in  the  unfrequented  city  and 
found  it  a  treasure  house  for  the  artist.  It  is  full 
of  Romanesque  churches  of  the  llth  and  12th  cen- 
turies; so  many  are  there  that  some  are  unused 
and  falling  into  decay.  The  two  best  are  San 
Martin  and  San  Millan;  the  first,  in  the  center 
of  the  town,  surrounded  by  noticeable  houses,  has 
outside  cloisters,  that  serve  as  a  sunny  lounging 
place  for  the  people.  From  San  Martin  you  can 
descend  to  San  Millan  by  the  steps  beside  the 
Plaza  Isabel  II.  Apart  from  the  church  itself, 
with  colossal  animals  carved  on  its  capitols,  the 
view  from  its  porch  is  a  most  beautiful  one,  in- 
cluding the  aqueduct,  the  Cathedral,  and  climb- 
ing houses,  part  of  whose  foundations  it  is  plain 
to  see  are  the  apses  of  ancient  churches. 

Segovia's  Cathedral  is  not  Romanesque  like 
most  of  her  churches,  but  late-Gothic,  designed  by; 


Segovia  167 

the  same  architect  who  did  Salamanca's  new  Cath- 
edral, and  like  it,  though  a  poor  thing  exteriorly, 
the  inside  is  dignified  and  effective:  it  is  more 
fortunate  than  its  sister  church  in  having  a  curved 
east  end,  not  Salamanca's  cold  hall-like  apse. 
The  cloisters  of  Segovia  belonged  to  the  earlier 
Cathedral;  they  were  taken  down  and  skillfully 
reset  here ;  the  pillars  being  elliptical  in  shape  like 
Oviedo,  are  not  thoroughly  pleasing.  In  a  chapel 
opening  out  of  the  cloisters  isf  the  touching,  small 
tomb  of  the  prince  whose  nurse  dropped  him  by 
accident  from  a  window  of  the  Alcazar,  back  in 
the  14th  century;  and  a  good  example  of  the 
countless  rare  tombs  of  Spain  is  the  bishop,  with 
an  exquisite  ascetic  face  of  chiseled  marble,  who 
lies  in  the  passage  leading  to  the  cloisters. 

As  we  were  in  Segovia  on  All  Saints'  Day, 
we  went  to  the  celebration  in  the  Cathedral,  saw 
the  prelate  —  the  train  of  his  red  robe  held  by 
bearers  —  met  at  the  church  door  by  the  canons 
and  conducted  in  state  to  his  throne.  The  vergers 
were  very  gorgeous;  the  leader  carried  a  silver 
staff  and  wore  a  white  wig  and  a  white  robe,  his 
two  assistants  also  in  white  wigs  but  with  red 
velvet  robes.  The  following  day,  All  Souls',  these 
vergers  were  dressed  in  mourning,  and  in  the 
center  of  the  black-draped  church  was  placed, 
with  true  Spanish  realism,  a  covered  bier.  On  All 
Saints'  Day  there  was  really  good  music  on  the 


1 68  Heroic  Spain 

organ  whose  pipes  flared  out  over  aisles  and  choir; 
also  an  excellent  sermon  to  which  all  listened  in 
rapt  attention,  officers,  peasants,  and  grave  faced 
hidalgos  standing  in  a  characteristic  group  around 
the  pulpit.  The  best  way  to  learn  Spanish  and  to 
learn  more  than  the  lip  language  of  this  race,  is  to 
listen  to  the  sermons.  Their  eloquence  is  natu- 
ral and  contagious,  and  the  peroration,  delivered 
with  brio.,  is  often  an  artistic  treat.  Attend  the 
sermons  and  frequent  the  early  morning  services, 
and  you  stumble  on  scenes  of  unobtrusive  piety 
that  tell  you,  despite  some  Spanish  pessimists,  that 
the  soul  of  religion  still  lives  in  this  land  of  the 
latest  crusaders.  As  Sunday  was  the  day  we  had 
set  for  the  trip  to  La  Gran j  a,  I  went  early  to  the 
Cathedral,  and  at  Mass  in  a  dark  chapel  of  the 
apse,  I  watched  long  two  gallant  little  lads  of 
twelve  and  fourteen,  smart  in  then*  artillery  uni- 
forms, swords,  and  white  gloves.  They  went  to 
Communion  with  their  mother,  who,  like  most 
Spanish  women  in  church,  was  dressed  in  black 
with  a  draped  veil,  a  fashion  that  lends  an  air  of 
distinction  to  the  plainest.  This  group  of  three 
remained  to  pray  after  the  others  had  left  the 
chapel,  remained  as  a  pleasure  really  to  pray,  the 
serious,  high-browed,  little  faces  bent  over  their 
books  of  devotion  as  they  read  the  After-Com- 
munion devotions  by  the  light  of  a  tall  candle 
placed  on  the  floor  beside  them;  then  their  blue 


Segovia  169 

eyes  closed  in  such  sweet,  unconscious  piety  that 
it  touched  the  heart  strangely.  And  when,  their 
prayers  over,  they  left  the  Cathedral,  each  seized 
the  mother's  arm  with  a  gay  scamper  of  delight 
—  she  probably  on  a  visit  to  them  —  and  now  for 
a  whole  day  of  vacation  and  enjoyment! 

In  the  same  uniform  as  the  small  Communi- 
cants of  Segovia  Cathedral,  other  embryo  artil- 
lery officers  fill  the  city.  At  our  hotel  was  a  table 
where  a  number  of  the  older  students  dined  each 
day.  They  were  well-bred  lads  with  inborn  se- 
dateness,  never  boorish  nor  loud-voiced;  noblesse 
oblige  still  is  a  reality  in  spite  of  the  dissipated, 
smart  set  in  Madrid  by  which  we  too  often  gener- 
alize. I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  look  of  pained 
displeasure  with  which  they  watched  the  over 
familiar  treatment  of  the  waiter  by  a  foreign 
lady. 

It  does  not  seem  to  me  too  harsh  a  statement  to 
make  that  Spain's  neighbor  across  the  Pyrenees, 
has  little  of  this  chivalrous  idealism  among  her 
boys.  There  are  exceptions  of  course;  the  manly 
carriage  of  the  brancardiers  of  Lourdes,  those 
bands  of  young  men  who  voluntarily  serve  as 
bearers  of  the  crippled  and  stricken,  show  that 
a  remnant  still  exists  of  the  race  of  the  Roche- 
jacqueleins,  of  the  Montalemberts,  of  those  who 
can  serve,  unpaid,  an  ideal.  Frenchmen  them- 
selves will  not  maintain  that  such  are  the  average. 


170  Heroic  Spain 

Whereas  the  average  Spanish,  like  the  average 
English  lad,  has  a  strong  dash  of  the  Quixote  and 
is  capable  of  disinterested  enthusiasm.  Proof  of 
this  radical  difference  is  that  first  important  step 
in  manhood,  marriage.  In  Spain  there  is  not  the 
pernicious  system  of  dowries;  as  a  rule  it  is  per- 
sonal attraction  that  wins  a  husband.  French 
people  will  assure  you,  that  though  one  may  be 
hump-backed  and  villainously  ill-tempered,  if 
there  is  a  dot  one  is  married;  one  may  be  grace 
and  intelligence  incarnate,  without  the  dot  one 
goes  un wedded  to  the  grave;  the  shrewd,  inter- 
ested love  of  money  is  in  young  as  well  as  old. 
Spanish  young  people  are  romantic.  Midnight 
serenades  and  evening  hours  of  chatting  by  the 
reja  are  signs  that  hint  marriage  here  is  more 
than  material  settlement,  love  more  than  an  im- 
pulse of  nature ;  Spain's  novels  tell  of  this  ideal- 
ism. In  many  vital  points  the  Spanish  people 
are  more  akin  to  the  English  than  to  their  Latin 
brothers. 

The  Sunday  morning  that  we  took  the  dili- 
gence for  our  country  excursion  started  cloudless. 
La  Granja  lies  seven  miles  outside  Segovia,  on 
the  Guadarrama  Mountains,  and  is  the  residence 
of  the  Court  for  part  of  each  summer.  The  dili- 
gence rattled  down  the  precipitous  streets  of 
Segovia,  passed  under  the  towering  aqueduct, 
"  the  devil's  bridge  "  the  peasantry  call  it,  then 


Segovia  171 

mounted  the  swelling  hills  to  the  palace  at  San 
Ildefonso.  It  had  formerly  been  a  farm  belong- 
ing to  the  monks  of  La  Parral ;  Philip  V  turned 
into  an  artificial  French  pleasure  ground,  and 
built  a  formal  chateau,  a  Bourbon  creation  that  is 
strangely  out  of  place  on  the  rugged  hills.  The 
park  is  well- wooded  but  all  rural  charm  is  spoiled 
by  the  neo-classic  fountains,  some  of  them  like 
monstrous  dreams.  Before  we  reached  the  leafy 
avenues  of  San  Ildefonso,  the  sky  became  over- 
cast and  a  heavy  rain  began.  Five  minutes  after 
leaving  the  diligence  we  were  so  drenched  that  it 
seemed  as  sensible  to  explore  the  palace  grounds 
as  to  pause  chilled  and  wet  in  a  miserable  hotel. 
Then  when  we  found  the  diligence  did  not  return 
to  Segovia  till  the  evening  and  that  no  carriage 
would  start  in  the  storm,  in  an  ill  moment  we  de- 
cided to  walk  back  to  the  city.  A  wind  that  cut 
like  a  knife  made  it  a  feat  beyond  our  strength, 
and  some  miles  along  that  bleak  way,  when  a  cart 
passed,  we  abjectly  begged  a  passage.  Yet, 
standing  patiently  under  the  drenching  rain, 
oblivous  to  the  tearing  wind,  the  contented  young 
shepherd  girls  watched  their  flocks. 

If  this  poor  imitation  of  Versailles  has  little  in 
itself  to  charm  the  tourist,  La  Gran j  a  has  been 
the  scene  of  so  many  striking  events  in  modern 
Spanish  history  that  it  merits  a  visit.  It  was  there 
that  Godoy,  favorite  of  Charles  IV's  wife,  signed 


172  Heroic  Spain 

away  Spain  to  Napoleon,  the  criminal  act  that  led 
to  such  glorious  consequences.  For  then  Spain, 
the  country  which  had  lain  downtrodden  under 
three  centuries  of  misrule,  shedding  her  blood  in 
wars  for  her  wretched  kings'  personal  ambitions 
and  giving  her  treasure  for  their  extravagance, 
awoke  suddenly  to  life  when  she  found  the  king 
had  outraged  her.  Two  young  heroes,  Daoiz  and 
Velarde,  artillery  officers,  turned  the  cannon 
on  the  French  invaders  in  Madrid,  that  memor- 
able Dos  de  Mayo,  1808,  and  the  War  of  Inde- 
pendence began,  the  starting  point  of  regenera- 
tion, the  second  Cavadonga. 

That  outburst  of  national  vigor  has  never  had 
justice  done  it.  We  know  the  Peninsula  War 
from  the  English  point  of  view,  a  ceaseless 
disparagement  of  Spain's  part  in  it.1  It  is  true 
that  without  the  English  armies  the  war  would 
have  dragged  on  in  disorderly,  guerrilla  fashion, 
for  misrule  had  robbed  the  people  of  skill  in  self- 
government  and  organization.  But  remember 
the  glorious  year  1808,  whose  centenary  all  Spain 
was  celebrating  during  the  months  of  our  visit, 
was  before  the  arrival  of  Wellington's  troops. 
The  Dos  de  Mayo,  the  Battle  of  Bailen,  where  a 

1  It  is  amusing  to  find  Napier,  whose  "  History  of  the  Peninsula 
War  "  is  one  of  the  most  one-sided  of  chronicles,  laying  down  the  law 
in  this  fashion:  "  The  English  are  a  people  very  subject  to  receive  and 
to  cherish  false  impressions,  proud  of  their  credulity,  as  if  it  were  a 
virtue,  the  majority  will  adopt  any  fallacy,  and  cling  to  it  with  a 
tenacity  proportioned  to  its  grossness." 


Segovia  173 

Spanish  general  with  Spanish  troops  brought 
about  the  surrender  of  twenty  thousand  of  Napo- 
leon's trained  soldiers,  and  the  sieges  of  Sara- 
gossa  and  Gerona,  unmatched  in  all  modern 
history  for  heroism,  were  in  1808-1809.  It 
is  just  to  remember  that  when  Germany,  Austria, 
Italy,  and  Russia  yielded  in  part  to  the  invader, 
Spain  stood  firm  against  him,  and  the  nation  that 
Europe  thought  unnerved  and  debased  "  pre- 
sented a  fulcrum  upon  which  a  lever  was  rested 
that  moved  the  civilized  world." 

La  Gran j  a  has  witnessed  later  historic  scenes. 
When  Charles  IV  betrayed  his  people,  the  nation 
chose  as  their  king  his  son,  the  miserable  Fer- 
dinand VII,  who  ungratefully  repaid  their  loy- 
alty. Poor  Spain,  she  has  had  kings  who  would 
have  wrecked  a  less  vigorous  race.  At  La 
Gran  j  a,  in  1832,  Ferdinand  VII  changed  his  will 
and  made  his  infant  daughter,  Isabel  II,  his  heir, 
instead  of  his  brother,  Don  Carlos,  whom  he  had 
previously  acknowledged,  thus  leaving  behind 
him  an  inheritance  of  civil  war.  From  the  days  of 
Urraca  and  Isabella  the  Catholic,  women  could 
inherit  the  throne  in  Spain,  just  as  they  can  in 
England.  But  in  the  18th  century  under  the 
Bourbon  kings,  who  loved  all  things  French,  the 
Salic  Law  was  introduced  and  continued  in  force 
till  Ferdinand  VII  changed  it  at  La  Gran  j  a. 
The  king  had  a  full  right  to  revert  to  the  earlier 


174  Heroic  Spain 

custom,  as  the  Salic  Law  was  an  innovation  in 
Spain,  and  the  grandson  of  Ferdinand's  daugh- 
ter, Isabel  II,  the  present  young  Alfonso  XIII, 
is  in  truth  the  legitimate  king  of  the  Spains. 
Don  Carlos,  on  Ferdinand's  death,  rose  in  rebel- 
lion, and  for  seven  years  a  frightful,  fraticidal 
struggle  ravaged  the  country.  This  civil  war, 
stamped  out  in  1840,  again  burst  into  flames  dur- 
ing the  disorders  of  1872.  To-day,  however,  the 
Carlist  faction  claims  but  scattered  adherents, 
chiefly  in  the  northern  provinces.  The  peaceful 
termination  of  these  troubles  has  been  solidified 
by  that  noble  and  truly  wise  woman,  the  present 
queen  dowager,  Maria  Cristina,  whose  strength 
of  character  and  sincerity  of  aim  may  be  said  to 
have  safeguarded  her  son's  inheritance  during  his 
long  minority. 

Another  scene  took  place  at  La  Gran j  a  in  the 
early  years  of  Isabel  II'  reign,  while  her  mother 
was  regent,  a  far  different  regent  from  the  later 
Cristina.  Though  the  Constitutional  factions 
had  rallied  round  Isabel,  as  the  Absolutists  had 
gathered  about  Don  Carlos,  it  was  only  through 
force,  inch  by  inch,  that  the  Spanish  Crown 
yielded  to  the  people's  demand  for  a  constitu- 
tional monarchy.  Thus,  at  La  Gran  j  a  in  1836, 
the  queen  mother  was  intimidated  by  the  army 
into  affirming  again  the  Constitution  of  1812. 

This  last  century  in  Spain  has  been  a  period  of 


Segovia  175 

such  ceaseless  insurrection,  such  rapid,  ill-con- 
sidered changes  of  ministries,  that  it  seems,  on 
hasty  survey,  to  be  a  hundred  years  of  political 
chaos.  Perhaps  a  slight  sketch  of  the  events  may 
help  to  a  better  understanding,  for  running 
through  the  century,  a  thread  to  the  labyrinth,  is 
the  nation's  slow,  stumbling,  but  ever  forward  ad- 
vance to  constitutional  rule.  With  each  disor- 
derly, seemingly  unconnected  insurrection,  a  step 
ahead  was  taken,  so  that  to-day  an  absolute  mon- 
archy is  an  impossibility  in  Spain.  She  may  have 
taken  longer  than  many  European  powers  to 
shake  off  the  incubus  of  the  divine  right  of  kings, 
but  on  the  other  hand,  she  has  achieved  her  com- 
parative independence  without  a  king's  execu- 
tion or  a  terrible,  bloody  cataclysm.  There  has 
never  been  in  Spain  the  bitter  separation  of 
nobles  and  people;  together  they  both  worked 
for  their  freedom,  keeping  a  fraternal  relation- 
ship that  is  uncommon  in  history.  The  Spanish 
temperament,  like  the  English,  has  an  intense 
loyalty  and  love  of  tradition;  it  finds  its  happiest 
condition  under  a  monarchy,  but  the  history  of 
the  19th  century  shows  it  must  be  a  constitu- 
tional monarchy;  a  modern  king  rules  for  the 
good  of  the  people  since  he  rules  by  will  of  the 
people. 

To  give  a  hasty  sketch  of  political  progress. 
Godoy,    Charles    IV's    unscrupulous    minister, 


176  Heroic  Spain 

brought  Napoleon's  armies  into  Spain  under  the 
pretext  that  they  were  on  their  way  to  conquer 
Portugal.  When  some  seventy  thousand  French 
troops  were  on  Spanish  soil  and  the  people  found 
their  king  a  slave  to  the  so-called  visitors,  they 
suddenly  awoke  to  the  truth,  the  tocsin  of  alarm 
sounded  in  Madrid,  and  from  one  end  of  the  land 
to  the  other  they  took  up  arms.  Then  followed 
the  Guerra  de  la  Independenzia,  1808  to  1814, 
that  proved  to  Europe  Spain  was  alive  and  vigor- 
ous, again  in  the  arena  of  the  world's  struggle. 
During  the  war  a  representative  body  met  at 
Cadiz,  thus  renewing  the  Cortes  that  had  flour- 
ished before  the  Hapsburg  dynasty  stamped  it 
out.  At  Cadiz,  in  an  outburst  of  patriotism,  the 
Constitution  of  1812  was  drawn  up:  for  the  in- 
vader, war  to  the  knife;  Ferdinand  VII  to  be 
their  lawful  king;  abuses  such  as  the  Inquisition 
abolished;  the  sovereignty  of  the  people  upheld; 
"  religion  y  rey,  patria  e  independencia"  truly 
Spanish  watchwords. 

When  in  1814  Napoleon  was  forced  to  accept 
Ferdinand  VII  as  King  of  Spain,  that  ungrate- 
ful king  came  back  to  his  loyal  people,  and  his 
first  act  was  to  restore  the  absolute  monarchy 
of  his  ancestors,  to  declare  the  Constitution  of 
1812  null  and  void,  to  try  to  galvanize  the  Inqui- 
sition into  life.  It  was  not  long  before  the  dis- 
orders of  his  government  led  some  of  the  colonies 


Segovia  177 

in  America  to  declare  their  independence,  and 
finally  Spain  too  uprose.  The  Riego  insurrec- 
tion of  1820,  proclaiming  again  the  Constitution 
of  1812,  was  the  first  of  the  frequent  pronuncia- 
mientos  (the  uprising  of  the  army  against  abso- 
lute monarchy)  that  continued  down  to  1870. 
Louis  Philippe  declared  this  insubordination  of 
the  army  a  menace  to  other  thrones  of  Europe, 
and  took  this  pretext  to  send  French  troops  into 
Spain  to  uphold  Ferdinand's  absolutism:  the 
Trocadero  defense  was  during  this  second  inva- 
sion of  the  French. 

Always  ceaselessly  agitating,  despite  tempo- 
rary defeat,  went  on  the  people's  struggle  for  a 
constitution.  While  Ferdinand  VII  lived  there 
was  little  hope  for  modern  ideas,  but  when  he 
died,  the  Constitutionalists  espoused  the  cause 
of  his  infant  daughter,  Isabel  II.  All  advance 
was  retarded  by  the  Carlist  War  that  followed 
Isabel's  accession,  during  which  war  occurred 
what  a  Spanish  quaker  has  called  the  "  pecado 
de  sangre"  the  brutal  massacre  of  the  monks 
and  destruction  of  such  unrivaled  centers  of  art 
as  Poblet  in  Catalonia,  more  a  political  act  than 
a  religious,  as  the  monks  were  Carlists.  This  war 
so  confused  and  embittered  the  issues  at  stake 
that  it  is  difficult  to  follow  with  consistency  the 
political  parties.  The  government  was  consis- 
tent only  in  its  instability,  having  now  a  Queen 


178  Heroic  Spain 

Regent,  now  an  Espartero,  banishments,  execu- 
tions, riots,  barricades,  revolts,  —  it  seemed  in- 
deed as  if  Spain  were  sown  with  Cadmus  teeth. 

Still  through  the  darkness  one  can  follow  a 
light.  The  Constitution  of  1837  asserted  boldly 
the  sovereignty  of  the  people.  Though  the  Con- 
stitution of  the  forties  was  lenient  to  absolute 
power,  the  Cortes  was  now  included  in  the  gov- 
ernment, a  marked  advance  since  Ferdinand 
VII's  day.  The  Constitution  of  the  fifties  was 
a  further  advance  toward  national  independence. 
In  the  midst  of  political  rancors,  the  war  with 
Africa,  1860,  came  as  a  noble  interval  when 
feuds  were  put  aside  and  all  fought  together 
against  a  common  enemy.  As  in  the  old  days, 
poets  and  novelists  enrolled  themselves  in  the 
army,  and  the  young  grandees  served  as  com- 
mon soldiers,  in  fidelity  to  the  vow  of  their  an- 
cestors, knights  of  Santiago,  of  Calatrava,  and 
of  Alcantara,  that  when  Spain  was  threatened  by 
the  Saracen,  their  descendants  would  serve  in 
the  ranks,  on  foot,  and  in  person. 

Then,  this  brilliant  war  over,  the  old  strifes  re- 
turned in  force,  Prim,  O'Donnell,1  and  twenty 

1  Frequently  in  Spain  one  comes  on  Irish  names  among  the  leading 
families.  The  O'Donnells,  Dukes  of  Tetuan,  have  had  several  genera- 
tions of  distinguished  men.  In  the  18th  century  Count  Alexander 
O'Reilly  led  the  Spanish  armies  in  the  New  World  and  the  Old,  and 
when  Governor  of  Andalusia,  he  so  reformed  economic  conditions  in 
Cadiz  that  a  beggar  was  unknown  on  the  streets.  He  too  was  followed 
by  an  able  son.  Reading  Spanish  books  the  traces  of  Irish  exiles  are 


Segovia  179 

minor  parties.  Queen  Isabel  II  was  banished  in 
1868,  and  the  first  interregnum  since  Spain  was 
a  monarchy  occurred.  Then  followed  the  short- 
lived rule  of  Amadeus  I,  Duke  of  Aosta  and  son 
of  Victor  Emmanuel,  called  by  invitation  to  rule 
in  Spain.  His  chief  upholder,  Prim,  was  assassi- 
nated before  Amadeus  reached  Madrid,  and  the 
new  king  found  himself  in  so  equivocal  a  position, 
that  after  two  unhappy  years  he  resigned  gladly. 
Under  the  influence  of  Castelar,  most  brilliant 
of  orators  and  a  man  who  sincerely  loved  his  coun- 
try, a  Republic  of  two  years'  duration  followed. 
Spain  was  never  intended  for  a  republic ;  discon- 
tent continued  general,  the  ministry  changed 
eight  times  in  this  short  period,  and  at  length  all 
warring  factions  agreed  that  the  only  hope  for 
stable  government  lay  in  the  restoration  of 
Spain's  lawful  king,  Isabel  II's  eldest  son. 

Isabel  in  Paris  abdicated  in  his  favor,  and  in 
1875  Alfonso  XII  returned  to  his  native  land. 
He  came  not  in  the  same  spirit  as  had  Ferdinand 
VII  in  1814.  The  sixty  years  of  disorders  had 
led  to  a  solid  result,  Alfonso  XII  came  back  as 
a  constitutional  king.  The  Constitution  of  1876 
was  a  reconciliation  of  monarchical  principles  and 

many :  thus  a  Dona  Lucia  Fitzgerald  organized  and  drilled  a  woman's 
regiment  during  the  siege  of  Gerona  in  1808 ;  and  the  beautiful  wife  of 
the  poet  Campoamor  was  a  Dona  Guillermina  O' Gorman. 
"  We  're  all  over  Austria,  France,  and  Spain, 
Said  Kelly,  and  Burke,  and  Shea." 


180  Heroic  Spain 

those  of  a  democracy.  The  new  king  died  before 
he  had  reached  the  age  of  thirty,  and  his  son 
Alfonso  XIII,  born  after  his  father's  death,  was 
represented  by  his  mother  till  his  majority.  To 
Maria  Cristina  of  Austria,  Spain  owes  an  unend- 
ing debt  of  gratitude.  Under  her  wise  rule  the 
country  had  some  years  of  the  peace  she  so 
needed;  and  even  what  is  termed  disaster,  the 
recent  loss  of  colonies,  is  a  blessing  in  disguise. 
Spain  to-day  needs  all  her  strength  for  herself. 

As  the  abuses  of  centuries  are  not  reformed  in 
a  year  and  as  nothing  on  earth  can  be  perfect, 
there  is  much  to  be  desired  still  in  Spain's  polit- 
ical life.  Her  constitution  is  an  excellent  one  in 
theory,  but  in  practice  it  is  crippled  I  the  dis- 
honest elections.  Political  power  is  left  in  the 
hands  of  an  unscrupulous  minority  who  work  for 
personal,  not  national  aggrandizement,  and  the 
distrust  such  elections  have  engendered  keeps  the 
better  element  of  the  people  aloof  from  the  gov- 
ernment. Only  fifteen  per  cent  of  the  Spanish 
people  vote.  The  king  has,  like  England's  ruler, 
the  right  of  absolute  veto.  If  Spain  is  now  so 
blessed  as  to  have  for  her  king  a  worthy  descend- 
ant of  Isabella  the  Catholic,  the  remedy  for  the 
political  dishonesty  may  be  close  at  hand.  Young 
Alfonso  XIII  has  an  intelligence  of  the  first 
order;  he  has  been  trained  under  a  high-minded 
and  truly  Christian  woman;  he  has  married  the 


Segovia  1 8 1 

daughter  of  a  race  that  well  understands  consti- 
tutional rule ;  personally  he  is  loved  by  his  people 
with  an  affection  not  hard  to  understand,  for 
despite  his  thin,  plain  face,  the  young  king  is 
eminently  distinguished  and  simpdtico.  Often 
in  Seville,  seeing  him  galloping  back  from  polo, 
or  returning  from  a  week's  hunt  in  the  wilds  of 
the  sierras,  our  intense  hopes  went  out  to  him. 
In  his  hands,  it  is  slight  exaggeration  to  say,  lies 
Spain's  future.  If  Alfonso  XIII  gives  his  intel- 
ligence and  life-blood  to  his  people,  who  can  fore- 
see to  what  heights  this  strong,  uncontaminated 
race  may  climb?  The  past  century's  outburst  in 
literature  and  art  hint  the  possibility  of  a  second 
siglo  de  oro. 

La  Gran j  a  has  led  me  far  afield.  It  does  not 
stand  for  Spain's  best,  an  artificial,  foreign  cre- 
ation where  passed  hours  of  the  nation's  abase- 
ment. Segovia  is  the  real  Spain.  Descend  from 
the  Alcazar  to  the  river,  cross  the  bridge,  mount 
to  the  ten-sided  chapel  of  the  Knights  Templars, 
and  sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  granite  cross,  look 
back  on  the  stretching  city.  There  lies  the  Spain 
whose  fiber  is  capable  of  regeneration :  generous, 
patient,  indomitable,  faulty,  but  with  manly 
faults,  untouched  by  taint  of  luxury  and  greed, 
with  blood  in  her  veins,  and  ideals  in  her  soul. 
Wander  down  by  the  Eresma  past  the  hermitage, 
and  encircle  the  town  by  the  footpath  beside  the 


1 82  Heroic  Spain 

tree-hidden  Clamores.  High  above,  its  yellow 
stones  gleaming  in  the  sunset  light,  rises  the  fort- 
ress which  stood  firm  for  Isabella  in  her  critical 
hour,  and  from  whence  she  started  in  state  to 
claim  her  heritage.  Will  the  young  king  of 
Spain  to-day  show  the  world  that  Isabella's  heri- 
tage is  worth  the  claiming? 


SAINT  TERESA  AND  AVILA 

"  All  great  artists  are  mystics,  for  they  do  but  body 
forth  what  they  have  intuitively  discerned:  all  philoso- 
phers as  far  as  they  are  truly  original  are  mystics,  be- 
cause their  greatest  thoughts  are  not  the  result  of  labo- 
rious efforts  but  have  been  apprehended  by  the  lighten- 
ing flash  of  genius,  and  because  their  essential  theme  is 
connected  with  the  one  feeling,  only  to  be  mystically 
apprehended,  the  relation  of  the  individual  to  the  Abso- 
lute. Every  great  religion  has  originated  in  mysticism 
and  by  mysticism  it  lives,  for  mysticism  is  what  John 
Wesley  called  '  heart  religion.'  _When  this  dies  out 
of  any  creed,  that  creed  "Inevitably  falls  into  mere 
formalism."  W.  S.  LILLY. 

MYSTICISM  is  St.  Teresa's  highest  glory.  To 
write  of  her  with  admiration  and  even  enthusiasm, 
leaving  untouched  this  acme  of  her  genius,  as  cer- 
tain of  her  biographers  have  done,  is  to  describe 
the  shape,  the  hue,  the  grace  of  a  rose  and  omit  to 
tell  of  its  scent.  On  all  sides  her  character  was 
notable ;  in  strength  of  will,  in  that  most  uncom- 
mon of  qualities,  common  sense,1  in  vigorous 
administration,  in  sincerity  of  purpose.  Carmelite 
nun  and  restorer  of  the  strictest  order  of  Carme- 
lites, she  was  not  in  the  least  a  withered  ascetic 

1  "  L'un  des  signes  distinctifs  des  mystiques  c'est  justement  1'equi- 
libre  absolu,  1'entier  bon  sens."  J.-K.  Huysmans:  "  En  Route" 


184  Heroic  Spain 

but  a  well-bred  Castilian  lady  of  winning  man- 
ners and  pleasing  appearance,  who  in  courtesy, 
dignity,  and  simplicity,  embodied  in  herself  the 
best  of  Castile.  From  every  word  she  wrote 
breathes  a  generous  character.  Her  robust  vir- 
ility of  mind,  her  complete  absence  of  sophistry 
or  of  self -consciousness,  help  us  to  understand 
the  love  she  roused  among  her  nuns,  and  the 
respect  she  gained  from  the  foremost  men  of 
her  time. 

:<  We  cannot  stir  ourselves  to  great  things 
unless  our  thoughts  are  high,"  wrote  this  soul  of 
heroism.  Yet,  with  all  her  supremacy  of  intellect, 
Teresa  was  so  delicately  witty,  so  gay  —  peals 
of  laughter  were  often  heard  in  her  cloisters  — 
so  shrewd,  that  never  in  her  was  found  the  least 
trace  of  the  pretentious.  Anecdotes  are  told  of 
her  practical  good  sense.  The  first  night  of  the 
foundation  in  Salamanca,  in  the  solitary  garret 
when  the  frightened  little  nun,  her  companion, 
exclaimed,  "I  was  thinking,  dear  Mother,  what 
would  become  of  you,  if  I  were  to  die,"  "  Pish," 
said  Teresa,  who  disliked  the  exalte,  "it  will  be 
time  to  think  of  that  when  it  happens.  Let  us  go 
to  sleep."  Then  her  vehement  protest  to  those 
who  thought  prayer  alone  sufficient  for  salvation: 
"No,  sisters,  no:  our  Lord  desires  works !"  Her 
swift  sweeping  aside  of  the  aristocratic  spirit  in 
her  convents ;  let  there  be  no  talk  of  precedence, 


Saint  Teresa  and  Avila        185 

"which  is  nothing  more  than  to  dispute  whether 
the  earth  be  good  for  bricks  or  for  mortar.  O 
my  God,  what  an  insignificant  subject!"  "I 
have  always  been  friendly  with  learned  men,"  she 
wrote,  and  pleasant  milestones  in  her  burdened 
life  are  her  interviews  with  some  remarkable 
minds  of  the  time.  "  Knowledge  and  learning 
are  very  necessary  for  everything,  alas !  "  —  This 
last  exclamation  made  in  naive  apology  that 
she  could  only  translate  in  ^halting  language 
her  inner  life  of  the  spirit,  she  whose  witchery 
of  style  makes  her  read  to-day  even  by  the 
scoffer. 

The  human  personality  of  the  saint  lives  in  her 
writing,  wiiere  is  found  the  fragrance  of  her  own 
special  soul.  "  I  cannot  see  anyone  who  pleases 
me  but  I  must  instantly  desire  that  he  might  give 
himself  entirely  to  God,  and  I  wish  it  so  ardently 
that  sometimes  I  can  hardly  contain  myself." 
"  Humility  alone  is  that  which  does  everything, 
when  you  comprehend  in  a  flash  to  the  depth  of 
your  being,  you  are  a  mere  nothing  and  that  God 
is  all."  "Oh,  Lord  of  my  soul!  Oh  my  true 
Lord,  how  wonderful  is  Thy  greatness !  Yet  here 
we  live,  like  so  many  silly  swains,  imagining  we 
have  attained  some  knowledge  of  Thee;  and  yet 
it  is  indeed  as  nothing,  for  even  in  ourselves  there 
are  great  secrets  which  we  do  not  understand." 
"Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  be  truly  spiritual? 


1 86  Heroic  Spain 

It  is  to  be  the  slaves  of  God ;  those  who  are  signed 
with  His  mark  which  is  that  of  the  Cross."  And 
that  supreme  cry  of  the  saints  in  all  ages: 
"  /  Senor!  /  O  morir  6  padecer!  My  God ! 
either  to  suffer  or  to  die ! " 

It  is  inevitable  sacrilege  for  anyone  in  this  gen- 
eration, which  has  traveled  so  far  from  the  days 
of  faith,  to  touch  on  Teresa's  raptures  and  locu- 
tions, for  in  sheer  ignorance  we  profane  what  is 
holy.  The  saint  herself  foresaw  our  difficulty. 
"  I  know  that  whoever  shall  have  arrived  at  these 
raptures  will  understand  me  well ;  but  he  who  has 
had  no  experience  therein,  will  consider  what  I 
say  to  be  foolish.  .  .  .  However  much  I  desire  to 
speak  clearly  concerning  what  relates  to  prayer, 
it  will  be  obscure  for  him  who  has  no  experience 
therein.  .  .  .  Some  may  say  these  things  seem 
impossible,  and  that  it  is  good  not  to  scandalize 
the  weak.  ...  I  consider  it  certain  that  whoever 
shall  receive  any  harm  by  believing  it  possible  for 
God  in  this  land  of  exile  to  bestow  such  favors, 
stands  in  great  need  of  humility;  such  a  person 
keeps  the  gate  shut  against  receiving  any  favors 
himself."  So  unparalleled  was  her  life  of  ecstasy 
that  at  first  the  saint  doubted  if  it  were  heaven 
sent  or  not;  she  submitted  herself  humbly  to  the 
tests  of  that  inquisition  age  till  at  length  her  own 
good  judgment  told  her  that  this  "  joy  surpass- 
ing all  the  joys  of  the  world,  all  its  delights,  all 


Saint  Teresa  and  Avila       187 

its  pleasures,"  was  from  God,  because  of  its  after- 
effects, an  added  peace,  a  deeper  humility,  a  more 
ardent  and  practical  love  of  souls.  But  her  clear 
brain  and  transcendent  honesty  made  her  see  the 
risk  for  weaker  minds :  "  The  highest  perfection," 
she  warns,  "does  not  consist  in  raptures  nor  in 
visions,  nor  in  the  gift  of  prophecy,  but  in  making 
our  will  so  conformable  with  the  will  of  God  that 
we  shall  receive  what  is  bitter  as  joyfully  as  what 
is  sweet  and  pleasant." 

Mysticism  skirts  indeed  perilous  precipices,  but 
St.  Teresa  walked  the  narrow  path  securely,  her 
eyes  uplifted,  oblivious  of  the  dangers  below.  I 
dare  not  touch  on  her  marvelous  life  of  the  spirit.1 
All  I  can  say  is,  go  to  her  own  works,  read  them 
in  their  pure,  native  Castilian,  do  not  be  content 
with  the  few  extreme  quotations  given  perhaps 
by  those  who  would  discredit  her ;  read  her  in  vari- 
ous moods,  as  you  do  the  "  Imitation,"  and  I 
doubt  if  she  fails  to  convince  you  that  there  are 

1  "La  Mystique  est  une  science  absolument  exacte.  Elle  peut  an- 
noncer  d'avance  la  plupart  des  phenomenes  qui  se  produisent  dans  une 
ame  que  le  Seigneur  destine  a  la  vie  parfaite;  elle  suit  aussi  nettement  les 
operations  spirituelles  que  la  physiologic  observe  les  etats  differents  du 
corps.  De  siecles  en  siecles,  elle  a  divulgue  la  marche  de  la  Grace  et  ses 
effets  tan  tot  impetueux  et  tan  tot  lents;  elle  a  m£me  precise  les  modifica- 
tions des  organes  materiels  qui  se  transforment  quand  1'ame  tout  entiere 
se  fond  en  Dieu.  Saint  Denys  1'Areopagite,  saint  Bonaventure,  Hugues 
et  Richard  de  Saint  Victor,  saint  Thomas  d'Aquin,  saint  Bernard,  Ruys- 
broeck,  Angele  de  Foligno,  les  deux  Eckhart,  Tauler,  Suso,  Denys  le 
chartreux,  sainte  Hildegarde,  sainte  Catherine  de  Genes,  sainte  Catherine 
de  Sienne,  sainte  Madeleine  de  Pazzi,  sainte  Gertrude,  d'autres  encore  ont 
magistralement  expose  les  principes  et  les  theories  de  la  Mystique." 
J.-K.  Huysmans:  "En  Route" 


i88  Heroic  Spain 

more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamed 
of  in  our  negative  philosophy,  that  a  few  rare 
souls  have  risen  to  supreme  heights  because  they 
were  really  humble  and  really  holy,  that  religion 
has  preserved  from  total  loss  the  subtlest  faculty 
of  man,  and  faith  stood  up  bravely  through  cen- 
turies of  intellectual  contempt  to  battle  for  it. 
Recently  I  came  across  a  review  of  some  works  on 
psychology  by  that  able  young  English  novelist, 
Robert  Hugh  Benson;  it  ended  with  these  sug- 
gestive words : 

"  In  Psychology,  science  and  religion  are  very  near 
to  one  another,  for  its  subject  is  nothing  else  than  the 
soul  of  man.  Science  in  her  winding  explorations  has 
been  for  centuries  drawing  nearer  to  this  center  of  the 
maze:  she  has  traversed  physical  nature,  the  direct 
work  of  God,  and  philosophy,  the  direct  product  of  man. 
...  Is  it  too  much  to  hope  that  when  science  has  ad- 
vanced yet  a  few  steps  more  she  may  have  come  to 
Faith  with  the  human  soul  newly  discovered  in  her 
hands :  *  Here  is  a  precious  and  holy  thing  that  I  have 
found  in  man,  a  thing  which  for  years  I  have  denied 
or  questioned.  Now  I  hand  it  over  to  the  proper  author- 
ity. It  has  powers  of  which  I  know  little  or  nothing, 
strange  intuitions  into  the  unseen,  faculties  for  com- 
munication which  do  not  find  their  adequate  object  in 
this  world  ...  a  force  of  habit  which  is  meaningless 
if  it  ends  with  time;  an  affinity  with  some  element  that 
cannot  rise  from  matter  as  its  origin.  Take  it  from 
my  hands  for  you  alone  understand  its  needs  and  ca- 
pacities. Enliven  it  with  the  atmosphere  it  must  have 


Saint  Teresa  and  Avila       189 

for  its  proper  development,  feed  it,  cleanse  it,  heal  its 
hurts,  train  it  to  use  and  control  its  own  powers,  and 
prepare  it  for  Eternity.'  ' 

Let  the  reader  before  he  opens  the  "  Way  of 
Perfection  "  know  the  saint's  "  Life  "  1  which  she 
wrote,  by  the  advice  of  her  superior,  when  forty- 
six  years  of  age;  it  is  an  autobiography  worthy 
to  rank  with  Augustine's  "  Confessions."  Read 
also  the  few  hundred  racy  letters  written  after 
the  press  of  the  day  while  the  convent  slept. 
Chief  of  all,  let  the  reader,  if  he  is  practical,  know 
that  inimitable  book  of  her  fifty-eighth  year,  the 
"  Foundations,"  with  its  Cervantes-like  pictures 
of  the  people  and  customs  of  the  time.  Perhaps 
only  those  who  have  traveled  on  Spanish  country- 
roads,  those  tracts  of  mud  or  rocks,  can  appreciate 
the  hardships  endured  by  this  aged  woman  as  she 
went  from  city  to  city  to  found  her  houses;  in 
heavy  snows  to  Salamanca;  to  Seville  in  a  cov- 
ered cart  turned  to  purgatory  by  the  direct  rays 
of  the  Andalusian  sun,  with  fever  and  only  hot 
water  to  drink ;  rivers  overflowed  by  heavy  rains ; 
boats  upset  in  the  rivers.  The  last  foundation 
was  at  Burgos,  barely  four  months  before  her 
death,  the  jolting  cart  in  which  she  rode  from 

1  It  has  been  said  that  there  never  was  a  spiritually  minded  man,  who, 
knowing  Saint  Teresa's  works,  was  not  devoted  to  them.  In  his  "Journal 
Intime,"  that  most  distinguished  prelate  of  modern  France,  Mgr.  Dupan- 
loup,  wrote:  "La  vie  de  Sainte  Terese  m'y  a  charme.  .  .  .  J'ai  rarement 
rec.u,  dans  ma  vie,  une  benediction,  line  impression  de  grace  plus  simple 
et  plus  profonde." 


i  go  Heroic  Spain 

Palencia  having  to  be  pulled  out  of  the  ruts  and 
she  entered  the  coldest  city  in  the  Peninsula  on 
a  raw  January  day  in  a  heavy  rain,  there  to  find 
further  troubles. 

Familiar  with  Teresa's  physical  endurance,  her 
cool-headed  business  ability,  her  candid  hatred 
of  shams  and  pretence,  then  approach  her  loft- 
ier self  and  read  the  "  Camino  de  Perfeccion." 
The  treatise  on  prayer  in  the  "  Life,"  (Chap.  XI 
to  XXII)  prepares  one  for  this  second  book, 
which  she  wrote  for  her  sisters  and  daughters  of 
"  St.  Joseph's  "  in  Avila,  "  those  pure  and  holy 
souls  whose  only  care  was  to  serve  and  praise 
Our  Lord,  so  disengaged  from  the  things  of  the 
world,  solitude  is  their  delight."  Through  the 
"Way  of  Perfection"  runs  her  beautiful  expo- 
sition of  the  Pater  Noster,  with  digressions  to 
right  and  left  as  her  thoughts  arose.  She  tells  of 
the  intangible  land  of  worship  in  magic-laden 
words  that  draw  the  cold  heart  to  the  far  realm  of 
contemplation  wherein  lay  the  source  of  her 
strength.  The  "  Camino"  leads  one  to  her  last 
book,  the  "  Interior  Castle,"  a  glorious  pasan  to 
God,  a  courageous  exploring  of  the  untrodden 
realms  of  the  soul  that  is  truly  one  of  the  triumphs 
of  the  spirit,  and  when  we  consider  it  was  written 
by  a  woman  of  sixty-two,  worn  out  with  labors 
and  penance,  living  in  a  poor  little  convent,  it  is 
an  incredible  feat  of  genius.  In  all  literature  is 


Saint  Teresa  and  Avila       igi 

found  nothing  loftier  nor  more  ethereal:    "  Oh, 
't  is  not  Spanish  but  't  is  Heaven  she  speaks!  " 

Teresa  belonged  to  the  race  of  the  true  mys- 
tics because  she  was  a  great  saint.  It  has  been 
said  that  sainthood,  the  divine  hunger  of  the  soul 
to  do  or  to  suffer  pro  causa  Dei  is  as  difficult  to 
define  to  the  imagination  as  genius.  The  mate- 
rialist may  scoff  at  it,  but  it  remains  a  primitive 
part  of  human  nature  against  which  argument 
beats  itself  in  vain.  Its  form  may  change  with  the 
times,  the  Eastern  anchorite  and  the  mediaeval 
ascetic  may  give  way  to  the  administrative 
bishop  needed  in  his  age;  to  a  knightly  paladin 
such  as  that  "  Raleigh  among  the  Saints  "  who 
led  his  Free  Lances  to  the  fight  for  the  salvation 
of  souls;  to  a  large-hearted  philanthropist  like 
Vincent  de  Paul,  with  his  unresting  Sisters  of 
Charity;  to  a  scholar  of  the  schools,  a  Newman; 
to  the  reformer  in  our  ugly  modern  cities; 
under  varying  vestures  the  spirit  is  the  same.  In 
the  compelling  power  of  her  saints  lies  the  force  of 
the  Church;  to  the  saints  of  the  Catholic  Refor- 
mation, to  Philip  Neri,  Charles  Borromeo,  Fran- 
cis Borgia,  Francis  de  Sales,  Francis  Xavier, 
Ignatius  Loyola,  the  Church  owes  her  rehabil- 
itation. These  great  souls  rose  in  every  land  to 
purify  abuses,  to  drive  the  money  changers  from 
the  temple:  they  were  the  leaven  in  the  hundred 
measures  of  meal.  Macaulay  noted  the  fact  that 


1 92  Heroic  Spain 

since  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  Protes- 
tantism has  not  gained  one  inch  of  ground,  and 
this  is  due  to  these  saints  of  the  Catholic  Refor- 
mation; for  deep  in  man's  heart  lies  a  reverence 
for  simple  goodness  that  overrides  all  disputes, 
and  when  such  saints  arose  in  the  church  that  was 
called  a  sink  of  iniquity,  men  paused;  those  who 
had  passed  from  her  ranks  did  not  return,  but 
none  after  followed  them.  Had  Luther  been 
gifted  with  more  of  this  personal  sainthood,  the 
fatal  division  that  bequeathed  centuries  of  hate 
and  warfare  might  have  been  avoided,  and  the 
simpler  method  of  example,  of  holiness  of  life, 
have  sufficed  for  reforming  Renaissance  Rome 
intoxicated  with  the  revival  of  pagan  culture. 
Such  regrets  are  futile,  a  mere  weighing  the 
weight  of  the  fire,  a  measuring  the  blast  of  the 
wind;  and  they  are  ungrateful,  too,  since  the 
spirit  of  that  troubled  time  roused  among  other 
great  souls,  a  Teresa  de  Cepeda  y  Ahumada. 

The  writings  of  this  remarkable  woman  have 
the  same  allurements  for  us  to-day  as  when  they 
flowed  almost  unconsciously  from  her  pen,  for 
besides  her  mysticism  and  her  sainthood,  she  was 
a  poet,  of  the  race  of  those  whose  thoughts  make 
rich  the  blood  of  the  world.  Her  little  nuns  tell 
that  when  she  wrote  her  hand  moved  so  rapidly, 
it  seemed  hardly  possible  it  could  form  human 
words,  while  in  her  face  was  an  expression  of 


Saint  Teresa  and  Avila       193 

exaltation.  "  She  ranks  as  a  miracle  of  genius, 
as  perhaps  the  greatest  woman  who  ever  handled 
pen,  the  single  one  of  all  her  sex  who  stands  be- 
side the  world's  most  perfect  masters,"  is  the  tes- 
timony of  the  ablest  English  critic  of  Spanish 
literature.  She  wrote  with  her  eye  direct  on  her 
soul's  experience,  with  the  glorious  courage  to 
give  the  naked  truth  regardless  of  consequences, 
and  she  will  be  read  as  long  as  sincerity  of  soul- 
expression  is  the  poet's  best  gift  and  while  the 
conflict  of  faith  and  unbelief  remains  the  highest 
of  human  themes. 

Mystic,  saint,  and  poet,  she  can  claim  yet  an- 
other title,  that  of  philosopher.  By  the  road  of 
self-study,  she  reached  that  sublime  height  of  met- 
aphysics, the  intellectual  vision  of  the  Absolute. 
The  further  Psychology  advances,  the  more 
wonderful  is  found  her  knowledge  of  the  soul  and 
its  moods  and  powers.  "  The  highest,  most  gen- 
erous philosophy  that  ever  man  imagined,"  wrote 
the  scholar,  Luis  de  Leon.  "  Sainte  Terese 
a  explore  plus  a  fond  que  tout  autre  les  regions 
inconnues  de  1'ame,  .  .  .  elle  explique  savam- 
ment,  clairement,  le  mecanisme  de  Tame  evoluant 
des  que  Dieu  la  touche  .  .  .  une  sainte  qui  a 
verifie  sur  elle-meme  les  phases  sur-naturelles 
qu'elle  a  decrites,  une  femme  dont  la  lucidite  fut 
plus  qu'humaine  "  is  the  appreciation  of  Huys- 
mans.  Not  only  orthodox  believers  yield  her 


Heroic  Spain 

this  preeminence:  Leibnitz  read  and  deeply  ad- 
mired her;  a  recent  French  critic  of  the  skeptic 
school  compares  her  to  Descartes.  Hyperbole  is 
inevitable  in  speaking  of  this  "  sweet  incendiary," 
and  all  who  know  her  books  feel  the  same  enthu- 
siasm. "  A  woman  for  angelical  height  of  specula- 
tion, for  masculine  courage  of  performance,  more 
than  a  woman,"  wrote  the  old  English  poet, 
Richard  Crashaw,  whose  "  Flaming  Heart "  is 
touched  with  her  own  potency : 

"  Oh  thou  undaunted  daughter  of  desires ! 
By  all  thy  dower  of  lights  and  fires ; 
By  all  the  eagle  in  thee,  all  the  dove ; 
And  by  thy  lives  and  deaths  of  love, 
By  thy  large  draughts  of  intellectual  day; 
And    by    thy   thirsts    of    love    more    large    than 

they;  .  .  . 

By  all  the  Heav'n  thou  hast  in  Him, 
(Fair  sister  of  the  seraphim!) 
By  all  of  Him  we  have  in  thee ; 
Leave  nothing  of  myself  in  me, 
Let  me  so  read  thy  life  that  I 
Unto  all  life  of  mine  may  die." 

Spain  may  claim  the  glory  of  having  appreci- 
ated this  her  greatest  daughter.  She  is  a  colonel 
of  artillery;  she  is  a  doctor  in  Salamanca;  the 
manuscript  of  her  "  Life "  was  placed  in  the 
Escorial  and  the  King  carried  the  key;  at  country 
inns  they  tell  of  the  night  she  rested  there,  as 
if  it  had  been  yesterday;  her  devotees  to-day  sign 


Saint  Teresa  and  Avila       195 

x 

their  letters  "  su  amigo  teresiano"  It  was  re- 
served for  later  generations  of  different  race  to 
explain  what  they  could  not  understand  by  call- 
ing it  hysteria  and  epilepsy.  Richard  Ford's 
account  of  the  saint  is  so  wide  of  the  original  that 
Froude,  no  lover  of  Catholic  Spain,  says  it  is 
not  even  a  caricature;  the  article  on  her  in  the 
Encyclopedia  Brittanica  is  a  disgrace  to  intellec- 
tual thought. 

Spain  stands  indifferent  to  such  criticism.  She 
knows  herself  secure  in  her  mystics  who  seem  to 
have  left  the  race  an  intuitive  understanding  of 
the  life  of  the  soul.  This  inherited  intuition  has, 
of  course,  its  dangers,  for  all  intelligences  are 
not  those  of  a  Teresa  de  Jesus.  It  needs  indeed 
"  large  draughts  of  intellectual  day  "  to  be  a  mys- 
tic. Valdes'  novel,  "  Marta  y  Maria  "  shows  this 
mistaken  insisting  in  the  nineteenth  century  on 
conditions  of  life  suitable  to  the  sixteenth.  But 
because  smaller  minds  have  imitated  her  disas- 
trously, their  neo-mysticism  need  not  be  consid- 
ered a  serious  menace  in  modern  Spain,  since  fol- 
lowing a  saint,  even  haltingly,  is  not  by  any  means 
an  easy  life  to  choose. 

St.  Teresa  and  Avila:  her  name  evokes  that  of 
her  native  city  as  instantly  as  St.  Francis'  that  of 
Assisi ;  every  stone  in  Avila  breathes  of  the  heroic 
woman.  Our  first  visit  was  to  the  small  plaza 
under  the  city  walls,  where  the  casa  solar  of  the 


196  Heroic  Spain 

Cepeda  family  stood.  Teresa  came  of  the 
untitled  gentry  of  Castile,  de  sangre  muy  limpia, 
and  a  Spaniard's  pride  in  his  blood,  untouched  by 
Moorish  taint,  by  crime,  or  illegitimacy,  is  as 
strong  to-day  as  then :  perhaps  it  is  this  pride,  in 
peasant  as  well  as  noble,  that  makes  the  demo- 
cratic relation  of  the  classes  in  the  Peninsula, 

At  right  angles  to  the  mediocre  church  built  in 
commemoration,  on  the  site  of  the  Cepeda  house, 
stands  the  mansion  of  the  Duque  de  la  Roca, 
which  gives  a  good  idea  of  the  solid  escutcheoned 
homes  of  the  hidalgo.  Many  such  dignified 
houses  are  scattered  over  Avila,  making  a  stroll 
in  her  streets  full  of  the  charm  of  surprise;  their 
chief  adornments  are  the  doorways,  truly  splen- 
did old  portals  with  coping  stones  sometimes  nine 
feet  deep  radiating  round  the  entrance.  In  one 
of  these  solid  Romanesque  houses  Teresa  was 
born  in  1515.  Through  a  city  gate  before  her 
house,  I  looked  out  on  just  the  same  scene  she 
had  known  during  the  first  eighteen  years  of  her 
life;  the  rocky  plain,  through  which  the  river 
wound,  stretched  to  a  spur  of  the  Guadarrama 
mountains,  capped  already  with  the  winter's 
snow.  Leaving  the  venerable  little  plaza,  I 
descended  the  steep  street  that  led  to  the  river 
bridge,  in  the  spirit  of  pilgrimage  still,  for  the 
child  Teresa  and  a  small  brother  wandered  here 
alone  one  day  on  their  way  to  seek  martyrdom 


HOUSE   OB1   THE    DlJUUE    DE    LA    RoCA,    AviLA 


Saint  Teresa  and  Avila        197 

among  the  infidels.  Met  by  an  uncle  beyond  the 
bridge,  the  runaways  were  brought  home.  Truly 
in  the  saint's  life,  the  child  was  father  to  the  man, 
her  days  bound  each  to  each  in  natural  piety, 
despite  that  short  period  which  her  too  tender  con- 
science ever  regretted  when,  as  a  pretty  girl,  love 
of  fine  clothes  and  flattery  allured  her.  It  is 
told  of  these  remarkable  children,  that,  hearing 
the  word  "  Forever,"  they  clasped  their  little 
hands  and  gazed  wide-eyed  in  each  other's  faces, 
overcome  by  its  stupendous  meaning. 

When  Teresa  was  eighteen  she  went  to  visit 
a  married  sister  who  lived  at  a  distance,  and  on 
her  return  stopped  to  see  an  uncle  who  had  just 
taken  the  resolution  of  entering  a  monastery. 
The  religious  feeling  in  her  partly  awoke,  and 
she  too  desired  the  life  of  'the  cloister,  but  her 
parents  not  finding  strength  to  part  with  her, 
one  morning  she  and  a  brother  slipped  away  from 
home,  and  after  he  had  conducted  her  to  the  Car- 
melite Convent  of  the  Incarnation  outside  the 
walls,  he  went  on  himself  to  beg  admittance  at 
the  Dominican  Convent  of  St.  Thomas.  For  over 
twenty-five  years  Teresa  lived  in  the  Encarna- 
cion:  during  the  first  twenty  years  she  was  miser- 
able in  bodily  health  and  as  miserable  in  spirit, 
for  the  saint  had  not  yet  found  her  vocation,  and 
the  laxity  of  the  rule  allowed  the  nuns  to  see 
much  of  the  world,  to  receive  visitors  and  hear 


ig8  Heroic  Spain 

the  gossip  of  the  town.  "  I  was  tossed  about  in 
a  wretched  condition,  for  if  I  had  small  content  in 
the  world,  in  God  I  had  no  pleasure.  At  prayer 
time  I  watched  for  the  clock  to  strike  the  end  of 
the  hour."  Strange  words  for  this  future  great 
genius  of  prayer!  Her  conversion,  the  change 
of  heart  that  sooner  or  later,  disregarded  or  wel- 
comed, comes  to  all  who  live  with  any  depth,  came 
to  Teresa  as  she  was  approaching  her  fortieth 
year.  She  had  been  roused  to  more  serious 
thoughts  by  her  father's  death,  and  one  day  in 
the  oratory  she  suddenly  seemed  to  realize  in  a 
figure  of  her  crucified  Saviour  the  unspeakable 
wonder  of  his  sacrifice : 

"  Thy  hands  to  give  Thou  can'st  not  lift. 
Yet  will  Thy  hand  still  giving  be, 
It  gives,  but  O,  itself  's  the  gift, 
It  gives  tho'  bound,  tho'  bound  't  is  free." 
» 

"  Love  touch't  her  heart,  and  lo !  it  beats 
High,  and  burns  with  such  brave  heats 
Such  thirst  to  die,  as  dares  drink  up 
A  thousand  cold  deaths  in  one  cup." 

With  the  inflowing  of  true  religion,  Teresa 
longed  for  a  stricter  life,  for  the  original  rule  of 
Mount  Carmel  as  conferred  by  Innocent  IV  in 
1248.  She  was  misunderstood  by  those  around  her, 
her  locutions  and  visions  doubted;  as  a  natural 
result  of  the  false  beata  of  that  day,  she  was  con- 


Saint  Teresa  and  Avila       199 

sidered  a  woman  who  for  the  sake  of  notoriety 
pretended  to  sainthood.  Only  after  years  of  semi- 
persecution  did  the  ring  of  truth  and  the  ethical 
fervor  of  Teresa's  words  convince  the  learned 
men  who  examined  her,  and  she  was  allowed  to 
leave  the  Encarnacion  to  found  the  convent  of 
St.  Joseph,  her  first  house  of  the  barefoot  or 
descalzos  Carmelites. 

Associated  so  closely  as  is  the  Encarnacion  with 
the  saint,  it  is  with  emotion  one  looks  down  from 
the  city  on  the  pleasant  oasis  it  makes  in  the  rocky 
plain.  Teresa  had  there  the  memorable  interviews 
with  St.  Francis  Borgia,  just  returned  from  a 
visit  to  his  friend  and  former  lord,  Charles  V  at 
Yuste ;  with  the  mystic  poet,  St.  John  of  the  Cross 
(whom  Coventry  Patmore  has  followed  in  his 
:<  Unknown  Eros  ") ;  with  St.  Peter  of  Alcantara, 
who  too  held  that  "  the  cornerstone  and  chief 
foundation  of  all  is  humility."  These  devout  men 
confirmed  Teresa  in  her  belief  in  the  divine  origin 
of  her  prayer:  "  There  is  no  pleasure  or  comfort 
which  can  be  equal  to  meeting  with  another  per- 
son to  whom  God  has  given  some  beginnings  of 
the  same  dispositions,"  she  wrote,  harrassed  by 
the  petty  suspicions  around  her. 

A  tenderer  association  than  the  Encarnacion  is 
that  of  San  Jose,  her  first  foundation.  The  con- 
vent lies  outside  the  Puerta  del  Alcazar,  Gate  of 
the  Castle,  past  the  plaza  where  the  townspeople 


200  Heroic  Spain 

stroll  under  the  arcades,  and  peasant  women 
sell  fragrant  celery  from  the  big  saddle-baskets 
they  lift  from  their  donkeys'  backs  to  the  pave- 
ment. The  visitor  is  shown  treasured  relics  by 
the  nuns,  the  quaint  musical  instrument  their 
mother  played  on,  her  drinking  jug,  and  wooden 
pillow,  a  letter  in  her  strong,  clear  hand- writing. 
During  the  later  strenuous  years  of  her  life  the 
saint  ever  looked  back  lovingly  here.  "  I  lived 
for  five  years  in  the  monastery  of  St.  Joseph  at 
Avila,  and  those  now  seem  to  me  to  be  the  most 
peaceful  part  of  my  life,  the  want  of  which  repose 
my  soul  often  feels."  From  the  age  of  fifty-two 
to  her  death  at  sixty-six  (1582)  this  wonderful 
woman  traveled  over  Spain,  founding  her  re- 
formed order,  sixteen  convents  for  women  and 
fourteen  monasteries  for  men.  While  on  a  visit 
of  inspection  at  Alba  de  Tormes  the  end  came; 
with  her  favorite  words  of  the  Psalmist,  "  A  con- 
trite and  humbled  heart,  O  God,  Thou  wilt  not 
despise,"  she  passed,  as  she  had  written  in  her 
"  Way  of  Perfection,"  "  not  to  a  strange  coun- 
try, but  to  her  native  land." 

Avila  is  worthy  of  her  saint,  Avila  of  the 
Knights,  Avila  the  Loyal,  the  King's  Avila.  It 
is  one  of  the  most  perfect  examples  existing  of  the 
fortified  towns  of  chivalry.  Built  on  an  eminence, 
it  is  completely  encircled  by  grand  old  walls, 
forty  feet  high,  whose  sameness  is  broken  by  some 


Saint  Teresa  and  Avila       201 

eighty-six  towers ;  two  of  these  here  and  there  are 
placed  close  together  and  arched,  so  as  to  make 
a  gateway.  Below  the  town  on  every  side 
stretches  a  plain,  so  strewn  with  shattered  rocks 
that  it  is  easy  to  picture  it  the  scene  of  some 
battle  of  giants.  The  Cathedral  may  be  called 
part  of  the  city  ramparts,  since  its  apse  forms 
one  of  the  eighty  encircling  towers ;  the  walls  are 
so  thick  that  the  radiating  chapels  round  the 
chancel  are  not  seen  in  the  exterior  view,  being 
quite  lost  in  the  depth  of  stone  and  mortar.  Our 
inn,  the  Fonda  Ingles,  looked  out  on  the  square 
before  the  Cathedral,  a  windy  spot,  where  the 
gusts  from  the  mountains  seized  and  tossed  the 
men's  long  capes.  Like  Burgos  and  Salamanca, 
Avila  is  on  the  truncated  mountain  of  central 
Spain,  and  one  is  reminded  of  its  3,500  feet  of 
altitude  by  the  bitter  cold.  Nothing  can  pierce  so 
sharply  as  the  wind  of  the  Castile  plains.  Each 
day  we  crossed  the  gusty  plaza  to  the  church  and 
so  grew  to  know  it  with  the  heart-affection  Span- 
ish cathedrals  win.  The  large  windows  have  been 
walled  up  to  darken  the  interior,  for  Spain,  the 
hardy,  the  all-enduring,  ignores  the  frosts  of 
eight  months  of  the  year  to  provide  against  the 
summer  heats.  The  details  of  Avila  Cathedral 
are  truly  lovely ;  a  double-aisled  ambulatory  round 
the  warm  space  of  the  High  Altar,  a  retablo  of 
ancient  pictures,  isolated  marble  shrines  between 


2O2  Heroic  Spain 

chancel  and  choir  near  which  kneel  groups  of 
black- veiled  worshipers,  gleaming  brass  rejas, 
a  carved  coro  where  the  canons  chant  and  where 
are  massive  illuminated  hymnals  on  the  lectern, 
all  make  up  one's  ideal  of  a  house  of  God.  Do 
not  miss  the  sacristy,  one's  ideal  too  of  what  a 
sacristy  should  be,  with  antique  silver  wrought 
by  the  De  Arfe  family,  with  painted  and  gilded 
cabinets,  and  alabaster  altars  cut  like  ivory. 

St.  Teresa's  city  is  small:  one  can  encircle  its 
walls  several  times  in  a  constitutional,  yet  every 
walk  discovers  new  treasures.  We  were  con- 
stantly stumbling  on  yet  other  of  the  imposing 
portals  that  exist  in  their  perfection  only  here  and 
at  Segovia,  and  in  the  sleepy  squares  or  court- 
yards we  found  some  of  the  roughly-hewn  stone 
animals,  the  primitive  god  of  Druid  days,  used 
later  by  the  Romans  as  milestones.  From  these 
comes  another  title  for  Avila,  Cantos  y  Santos. 
An  easy  afternoon  walk  can  be  taken  to  Son 
Soles,  a  hermitage  on  the  lower  slope  of  the 
mountains,  whither  the  saint  must  have  gone  in 
the  summer  evenings  when  the  sunset  glorified 
the  plain  and  hills,  for  the  customs  of  Avila  to-day 
are  those  of  Avila  in  the  sixteenth  century.  A 
path  led  us  across  the  aromatic  fields,  and  country 
men  in  wide-brimmed  velvet  hats  gazed  at  us  with 
clear,  fearless  eyes,  grave  yet  courteous,  like  true 
Castilians.  In  the  meadows  we  met  a  gentleman 


Saint  Teresa  and  Avila       203 

of  the  town  pacing  slowly,  book  in  hand;  one 
would  have  time  in  the  home  of  the  mystic  for 
such  fruitful  hours  of  pause,  such  sessions  of 
sweet  silent  thought.  On  the  way  to  Son  Soles, 
just  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  stands  Santo 
Tomas,  the  Dominican  monastery  that  long  sup- 
plied missionaries  to  the  Philippines.  Before  the 
High  Altar  is  a  white  marble  mausoleum  of 
Isabella's  period,  worthy  to  rank  with  that  of  her 
parents  at  Miraflores,  —  the  truly  touching  tomb 
of  her  only  son.  He  lies  with  calm  upturned  face, 
a  crown  on  his  thick  locks,  his  gauntlets  thrown 
beside  him.  The  royal  prince  was  educated 
with  ten  young  nobles  in  a  former  palace  near 
this  church.  Generous,  handsome,  a  scholar 
and  musician,  with  the  fair  future  stretching  be- 
fore him  of  the  first  king  to  rule  the  Espanas  rich 
and  united,  he  died  suddenly  at  Salamanca  in 
1497,  turning  all  the  conquests,  all  the  discoveries 
of  his  parents'  reign  to  dust  and  ashes.  The 
Queen  bowed  her  head  in  submission,  saying  "  The 
Lord  giveth  and  the  Lord  taketh  away,  Blessed 
be  his  name  " :  but  it  is  told  that  she  often  came  to 
sit  in  her  special  stall  of  the  raised  choir  here,  to 
gaze  with  broken  heart  on  the  white  tomb  of  her 
son.  Had  he  lived  would  Spain's  evil  day  have 
been  averted?  One  can  almost  believe  so;  for 
tyrannic  government  came  in  with  the  Austrian, 
who  ruled  here  because  of  Don  Juan's  death. 


204  Heroic  Spain 

Charles  V,  Isabella's  grandson,  was  not  a  Span- 
iard; he  could  little  understand  the  system  of 
individual  city  rights  that  prevailed  in  the  coun- 
try he  came  to  govern.  Spain  can  boast  she  was 
one  of  the  earliest  of  European  nations  to  teach 
the  municipal  doctrine  that  the  state  has  freedom 
if  the  town  is  free.  We  too  completely  forget 
that  it  was  nearly  a  century  before  the  celebrated 
Leicester  Parliament  that  Burgos  in  1169  had 
popular  representation.  When  the  Austrian 
arrived,  with  his  autocratic  idea  that  all  power 
:  should  be  concentrated,  the  Gastilian  cities  rose 
in  the  Comuneros  rebellion,  but  they  were  ruth- 
lessly put  down  and  for  three  hundred  years  the 
land's  vigor  and  wealth  were  exploited  for  the  ben- 
efit of  one  family.  I  am  sure  that  as  she  sat  pon- 
dering in  the  choir  stall  of  Santo  Tomas  Isabella 
foresaw  what  a  tragic  loss  to  her  cherished  land 
was  the  death  of  her  only  son.  Avila  can  link  the 
names  of  Isabella  la  Catolica  and  Teresa  de  Jesus, 
the  two  most  incomparable  women  in  whom  the 
sex  has  culminated,  both  born  on  the  bleak  invig- 
orating steppes  of  Castile,  in  the  same  province, 
within  the  same  hundred  years,  both  making  an 
indelible  impression  on  their  race,  both  leaving 
a  deathless  heritage  of  aspiration  and  onspurr- 
ing  pride.  Is  there  any  wonder  that  a  people 
who  can  claim  two  such  heroines  look  at  one  with 
fearless  eyes? 


Saint  Teresa  and  Avila       205 

Avila  is  rich  in  tombs.  There  is  a  second 
lovely  one  in  Santo  Tomas,  that  of  Prince 
John's  attendants,  and  down  by  the  river  bridge, 
the  picturesque  chapel  of  San  Segundo  holds  a 
most  beautiful  work  by  Spain's  best  sculptor, 
Berruguete.  The  kneeling  bishop  has  so  gentle 
an  expression  that  it  is  hard  to  believe  he  could 
hurl  a  Moslem  chief  from  the  city  walls  above  this 
hermitage.  In  the  Cathedral,  behind  the  High 
Altar,  is  another  Berruguete  tomb,  Bishop  Tos- 
tado,  whose  industry  has  passed  into  a  proverb; 
he  is  here  represented  with  speaking,  alert  expres- 
sion, leaning  forward,  his  tireless  pen  suspended 
in  his  hand. 

The  tomb  of  St.  Teresa  is  not  found  in  her 
native  city,  for  she  was  buried  where  she  died, 
at  Alba  de  Tormes,  some  miles  from  Salamanca. 
Not  long  after  her  death  Avila  stole  the  saint's 
body  —  strange  to  our  modern  notions  are  those 
old  disputes  over  relics  —  but  through  the  influ- 
ence of  the  Duke  of  Alva  it  was  restored  to  his 
town. 

Admiration  for  St.  Teresa  tempted  me  to  Alba 
de  Tormes,  but  to  those  who  would  go  thither  I 
must  say,  resist  the  temptation.  Unfortunately, 
the  spirit  of  religiosity,  which  is  to  religion  what 
sentimentality  is  to  sentiment,  has  taken  posses- 
sion of  her  burial  place.  If  you  do  go  to  Alba, 
however,  make  it  a  day's  excursion  from  Sala- 


206  Heroic  Spain 

manca.  The  evening  was  over  before  we  reached 
the  town,  and  we  drove  in  darkness  from  the  sta- 
tion, bumping  over  the  ruts  of  an  awful  road. 
Railway  and  villages  seem  often  at  enmity  in 
Spain;  though  we  had  passed  directly  by  the 
gleaming  lights  of  Alba,  we  ran  on  some  miles 
further  before  stopping  in  its  station,  hence  the 
necessity  of  a  drive  of  several  kilometers  back  to 
the  town.  The  inn  was  most  primitive,  being 
merely  the  poor  house  of  a  country  woman,  our 
waiter  at  table  her  ten-year  old  son  dressed  in 
corduroys,  A  friendly  pig  met  us  in  the  front 
hall,  coming  out  from  the  kitchen  to  look  at  the 
unaccustomed  foreigners ;  nevertheless,  the  house 
was  clean  and  the  landlady  got  out  fragrant 
linen  for  the  bedrooms.  On  our  admiring  a  pic- 
ture of  their  great  patroness,  the  kindly  woman, 
after  dusting  it,  presented  it  with  the  customary 
polite  phrase  of  "  this  your  picture,"  which  was 
no  mere  formality,  since  the  next  morning  when 
she  found  it  secretly  restored  to  its  former  place, 
she  rushed  out  to  thrust  it  again  on  us  as  we  were 
stepping  into  the  diligence.  This  generous  land- 
lady, our  grave  little  garcon,  the  night  watchman 
the  sereno,  calling  the  hours,  a  daybreak  view 
from  the  plaza  of  the  vivid  green  meadows  along 
the  river,  these  are  the  pleasant  reminiscences  of 
Alba.  Opposite  the  inn  stood  the  church  where 
the  saint  is  buried,  but  willingly  would  I  blot 


Saint  Teresa  and  Avila       207 

out  its  memory.  An  excitable  monk  was  our 
guide.  He  turned  on  the  electric  light  with  a 
spectacular  air,  as  if  that,  not  the  great  relic,  was 
the  boast  of  the  church;  he  showed  the  saint's 
silver  tomb,  her  heart  hung  round  with  votive 
gifts,  archbishop's  rings  and  diamond  coronets, 
then  he  led  us  to  the  revolving  door  of  the  convent, 
whence  personal  mementoes  were  passed  us  for 
inspection.  Lowering  the  lights,  he  bade  us  look 
through  a  grating  at  the  back  of  the  church,  and 
suddenly  the  electricity  was  turned  on  in  an  inte- 
rior room,  and  there  on  the  cot  lay  the  image  of  a 
Carmelite  nun  asleep.  The  whole  thing  was  in 
the  worst  possible  taste,  on  a  level  with  the  bad 
Churrigueresque  architecture  of  the  same  period. 
A  spot  worthy  of  silent  pilgrimage,  where  one 
of  God's  greatest  saints  breathed  her  last  prayer, 
"  Cor  contritum  et  humiliatum,  Deus,  non  des- 
picies,"  this  solemn  cell  of  her  death-bed  has  been 
turned  to  a  vulgar  show.  How  Teresa's  intel- 
ligent simplicity  would  sweep  aside  such  ill- 
judged  honors!  In  silent  protest  at  the  tawdri- 
ness  surrounding  them,  lie  the  patrons  of  this 
Alba  foundation,  Don  Francisco  Velasquez  and 
his  wife  Dona  Teresa,  distinguished,  superb 
effigies  in  stone,  hidalgo  como  el  Rey.  Dona 
Teresa,  in  the  delightful  way  of  Spanish  ladies 
on  tombs,  is  reading  tranquilly  in  her  book  of  de- 
votions. 


208  Heroic  Spain 

With  this  example  before  us  of  the  pass  to 
which  religious  extravagance  can  be  carried,  it 
may  be  time  to  touch  on  a  tendency  in  Spain  that 
is  a  distress  to  the  northern  Catholic  who  is  less 
childlike  in  his  inward  life.  Of  course,  since  there 
is  every  kind  of  temperament,  there  must  be 
every  kind  of  taste;  perhaps  I  am  too  much 
guided  by  personal  likes  or  dislikes.  However,  I 
feel  that  those  who  crave  the  appropriate  and 
simple  will  agree  with  me  that  making  allowance 
for  an  emotional  people,  a  coquettish  shepherdess 
under  a  glass  case  on  a  church  altar,  (such  as  I 
saw  in  Cadiz,)  is  misunderstood  religion.  One 
of  Spain's  wisest  sons,  the  philosopher  Vives,  agi- 
tated against  the  dressing  of  statues,  and  the 
Council  of  Trent  later  prohibited  the  bad  usage. 
Why  is  not  their  advice  followed?  I  do  not  mean 
to  criticise  the  little  country  shrines  whose  in- 
artistic decoration  is  often  most  heart -moving ; 
in  a  remote  village  certain  things  are  touching 
which  elsewhere  are  displeasing.  It  should  be 
the  effort  of  the  Spanish  clergy  to  discourage 
the  extreme  devotion  to  special  altars  and  stat- 
ues. Artificial  and  roccoco  in  sentiment  and 
expression,  it  is  a  menace  to  religion  in  the  Penin- 
sula. Spain  has  the  vital  Christian  faith,  she  is 
unspoiled  by  the  tinsel,  beneath  the  symbol  is  a 
soul;  but,  if  she  insists  on  clinging  to  what  the 
modern  mind  finds  ugly  and  insincere,  she  may 


Saint  Teresa  and  Avila       209 

lose  many  to  whom  the  inner  religion  of  a  St. 
Teresa  would  appeal.  People  seldom  will  see 
both  sides  justly;  to  rid  themselves  of  an  irri- 
tating detail,  some  will  throw  away  the  whole. 
There  are  not  a  few  whose  antipathy  to  religion 
has  been  caused  by  this  blind  clinging  to  the 
non-essential:  the  novelist  Perez  Galdos,  I 
should  say  was  such  a  case.  Though  his  stories 
prove  that  he  has  never  grasped  what  interior 
religion  means,  has  never  gone  to  the  fountain 
head  and  drank  of  the  pure,  mystic  waters,  but 
has  tasted  only  the  contaminated  streams  of  the 
valley,  yet  it  cannot  be  denied  that  some  of  the 
religiosity  he  depicts  is  a  phase  that  exists  only 
too  truly.  The  evil  is  the  result  of  ignorance, 
not  of  malice.  For  this  reason  it  would  die  a 
natural  death  were  the  Spanish  clergy  given  a 
wholly  rounded  education.  I  do  not  refer  here 
to  the  learned  canons  or  monastic  orders,  but 
to  the  parochial  clergy.  Spain  watches  her 
neighbor  France  too  closely,  let  her  look  fur- 
ther afield  and  she  will  lose  her  fear  that  education 
and  skepticism  go  hand  in  hand ;  in  England  and 
America  the  priesthood  is  with  the  advanc- 
ing tide,  not  against  it:  knowledge  never  yet 
harmed  religion,  but  ignorance  cripples  her. 
Science  should  have  no  silly  terrors  for  priests 
whose  church  is  the  greatest  proof  of  evolution 
through  the  ages,  advancing  relentlessly  so  that 


210  Heroic  Spain 

what  is  worth  retaining  of  man's  increasing 
knowledge  finds  its  inevitable  place  in  her  body, 
but  advancing  slowly,  (impatient  abuse  cannot 
hurry  her  magnificent  conservatism)  ;  a  complete 
organism,  a  living  entity  ever  changing,  yet  ever 
the  same.1  We  can  hardly  expect  the  clergy  of 
a  land  where  tradition  is  a  sacred  thing,  to  be 
in  the  vanguard  of  modern  thought,  but  they  at 
least  should  not  forget  their  own  noted  men  of 
learning.  Ximenez,  Luis  de  Leon,  Feijoo,  Isla, 
Suarez,  Balmes,  —  the  names  come  crowding  — 
all  of  them  churchmen,  who,  the  more  they  knew, 
the  deeper  grew  their  faith. 

After  this  vexatious  visit  to  Alba  de  Tormes, 
it  was  with  trepidation  that  I  came  to  Avila,  there 
to  find  Teresa's  vigorous,  truly-spiritual  person- 

1  "Just  as  the  Church  of  Rome  has  absorbed  Platonism  in  the  doc- 
trine of  the  Logos  and  of  the  Trinity,  and  has  absorbed  Aristotelianism 
in  the  doctrine  of  Christ's  real  presence  in  the  Eucharist,  so  we  may 
naturally  expect  that  hi  its  doctrine  of  its  own  nature,  it  will  some  day 
absorb  formally,  having  long  done  so  informally,  the  mam  ideas  of  that 
evolutionary  philosophy,  which  many  people  regard  as  destined  to  com- 
plete its  downfall;  and  that  it  will  find  in  this  philosophy  —  in  the  philos- 
ophy of  the  Darwins,  the  Spencers,  and  the  Huxleys  —  a  scientific  ex- 
planation of  its  own  teaching  authority,  like  that  which  is  found  in 
Aristotle  for  its  doctrine  of  Transubstantiation.  ...  It  may  be  said  that 
the  Roman  Church  itself  developed  without  being  conscious  of  its  own 
scientific  character,  just  as  men  were  for  ages  unconscious  of  the  circula- 
tion of  their  own  blood.  .  .  .  Like  an  animal  seeking  nutriment  it  put 
forth  its  feelers  or  tentacles  on  all  sides,  seizing,  tasting,  and  testing  all 
forms  of  human  thought,  all  human  opinions,  and  all  alleged  discoveries. 
It  absorbs  some  of  these  into  itself,  and  extracts  their  nutritive  principles; 
it  immediately  rejects  some  as  poisonous  or  indigestible;  and  gradually 
expels  from  its  system  others,  condemned  as  heresies,  which  it  has  acci- 
dentally or  experimentally  swallowed."  W.  H.  Mallock:  "Doctrine  and 
Doctrinal  Disruption."  1900. 


Saint  Teresa  and  Avila       211 

ality  the  living  presence  of  the  proud,  high- 
minded  little  Castilian  city.  And  a  happy  coin- 
cidence the  night  of  our  arrival  gave  proof  that 
her  generous  enthusiasm,  her  unresting  love  of 
souls,  were  not  things  of  the  past.  Having  spent 
the  day  at  the  Escorial,  at  ten  in  the  evening  we 
took  the  express  to  Avila.  In  the  carriage 
Reservado  para  Senoras,  we  found  ourselves  with 
three  religious  of  the  Sacred-Heart;  a  touch  of 
home  for  me  were  their  familiar  fluted  caps, 
buttoned  capes,  and  silver  crosses.  The  few  hours 
of  the  journey  fled  all  too  swiftly  in  delightful 
talk;  like  nuns  the  world  over,  they  were  gay  and 
happy  as  children,  with  the  serene  youth  of  the 
convent  life  in  their  faces.  One  of  them  was  so 
distinguished  a  woman  that  it  was  a  fascination 
to  look  at  her. 

These  fragile  nuns  were  to  travel  through  the 
cold  night  —  and  a  raw  November  gale  was  blow- 
ing over  the  uplands  of  Castile  —  to  take  a 
steamer  at  Bordeaux,  for  they  were  pioneers,  on 
their  way  to  found  a  house  in  a  distant  part  of 
South  America,  where  education  was  backward. 
Three  weeks  of  winter  sea,  then  some  tropical 
days  on  horseback,  before  they  reached  their  deso- 
late new  home!  Truly  the  heroic  spirit  of  St. 
Teresa  is  alive  to-day,  and  fair  sisters  of  the 
seraphim  still  walk  among  us. 


212  Heroic  Spain 


EVENING   IN   AVILA 

Around  about  the  town  stand  eighty  gray  stone  towers, 
That  make  a  fitter  crown,  a  hardier  §how  than  flowers 
For  what  is  high  and  brave  —  the  tawny  Castile  plain  — 
So  patient  and  so  grave,  incarnate  soul  of  Spain. 

You  have  made  sweet  the  ways  of  penury  and  care 
With  dawn  and  sunset  praise  and  white  still  hours  of 

prayer, 

Old  town  of  mystic  saint !  Secure  you  ask :  Does  peace, 
Or  restless  seeking  plaint  come  with  your  wealth's 

increase? 


An  answering  sound  of  bells  across  the  upland  goes, 

To  each  field-toiler  tells  a  message  of  repose, 

And  mounting   to   the   sky's    slow-darkening,   tranquil 

dome 
The  heart-calm  echoes  rise  of  peasants  lingering  home. 


MADRID    AND    THE    ESCORIAL 

"  They  who  wrought  wonders  by  the  Nile  of  old, 
Bequeathing  their  immortal  part  to  us, 
Cast  their  own  spirit  first  into  the  mould, 
And  were  themselves  the  rock  they  fashioned  thus." 

GEORGE  SANTAYANA. 

THESE  two  spots,  products  of  men  of  small  idea 
and  nature,  are  happily  so  close  together  that  they 
can  fall  under  the  same  abuse.  Coming  from  the 
north,  to  stop  at  the  Escorial  either  from  Avila 
with  its  grand  walls  of  the  eighty  towers,  or  from 
the  crag-set  castle  of  Segovia,  is  such  an  abrupt 
transition  from  heroic  times  to  the  doctrinaire 
centuries  that  followed  them  that  it  is  but  too  easy 
to  be  unfair  to  Philip  II's  huge  pile.  A  better 
way  is  to  go  out  to  it  from  Madrid;  then,  some- 
what accustomed  to  cold  commonplace,  the  Esco- 
rial gives  less  of  a  jar. 

We  descended  to  it  from  Segovia.  Knowing 
Herrera's  lifeless  architecture  —  "a  syllogism  in 
stone  "  it  has  wittily  been  called  —  on  that  side 
I  did  not  expect  much,  but  accounts  of  the  setting 
of  the  Escorial,  of  its  grand  solitary  position  in 
the  mountains,  made  me  hope  for  some  kind  of 


214  Heroic  Spain 

effect.  People  see  things  in  such  different  ways. 
I  could  discover  no  grandeur  whatever  in  the  posi- 
tion of  the  rectangular  ashy-colored  building. 
The  lower  slopes  of  the  Guadarramas  rise  behind 
it,  but  at  a  little  distance,  and  the  town  comes 
between  it  and  the  sierras.  It  was  not  solitary,  it 
was  not  imposing.  At  close  range,  after  we  had 
walked  up  the  leafy  avenue  from  the  station,  even 
the  appearance  of  unity  was  lost,  and  it  seemed 
nothing  but  a  big  block  of  good  town  houses 
like  many  that  fill  the  square  between  four  city 
streets.  Window  after  window,  alike  inade- 
quately small  and  unadorned;  just  like  any  mo- 
notonous line  of  town  houses.  We  stood  aghast 
at  the  pretentious,  ineffectual  mass  which  they 
call  the  eighth  wonder  of  Spain.  For  us  to-day 
there  is  little  wonder  in  spending  fifty  millions  in 
one  lifetime  to  put  up  myriads  of  doors,  stair- 
cases, and  courtyards,  to  use  two  thousand  pounds 
of  iron  to  make  the  door-keys;  we  are  accustomed 
to  the  feat.  The  pity  is  that  every  tourist  in  Spain 
comes  here,  and  one  in  a  thousand  goes  to  Poblet 
or  Leon,  those  other  pantheons  that  are  proper 
burial  places  for  sturdy  old  kings.  I  am  not  sure 
that  the  Hapsburgs  in  Spain  merit  anything 
worthier  than  an  Escorial. 

At  first  we  thought  it  might  be  the  side  which 
we  approached  that  gave  so  poor  an  effect,  so  we 
proceeded  to  encircle  the  building;  on  all  four 


Madrid  and  the  Escorial      215 

sides  passing  by  window  after  window  we  saw  not 
one  inch  of  stone  carved  worthily,  arid  to  our 
astonishment  we  found  it  faced  the  mountains. 
Fancy  a  blank,  rocky  wall,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away  and  fancy  such  a  stupidity  as  choosing  this 
to  open  on,  instead  of  the  wide  horizon  of  the 
opposite  side.  Does  this  not  give  the  key  to 
the  Escorial?  It  and  its  builder  had  no  imagi- 
nation. Since  we  were  here  we  had  to  see  it  all, 
so  we  let  ourselves  be  guided  hither  and  thither, 
through  courtyard  after  courtyard,  down  one  dull 
corridor  after  another,  in  and  out  of  rooms  where 
little  interested,  —  a  dreary  waste  of  a  place.  In 
the  picture  gallery  overlooking  the  gardens  we 
got  our  first  introduction  to  that  eccentric  genius, 
El  Greco,  at  his  worst  here,  with  sick  color  and 
elongated  figures;  we  thought  him  quite  mad. 
Nevertheless,  the  picture  gallery  was  a  respite; 
it  was  good  to  meet  again  Tintoret's  rich  visions 
,  of  Venice,  the  full  superb  shoulders  of  his  women, 
the  gold  brown  of  the  robes.  Ranged  in  cases 
there  were  also  some  embroidered  vestments 
that  were  noticeable. 

The  church  of  the  Escorial  is  so  coldly  formal 
and  pretentious  that  it  lay  like  a  load  on  our 
spirits.  There  is  something  frightening  in  the 
way  man  unconsciously  expresses  his  own  nature 
in  the  material  work  of  his  hand;  he  may  think 
himself  very  big,  unless  he  really  is  he  is  cer- 


2  1 6  Heroic  Spain 

tain  to  betray  himself,  if  he  paints  or  writes  or 
builds.  This  correct,  somber  church  exactly  rep- 
resents the  religious  ideal  of  a  Philip  II. 
Heaven,  so  close  to  one  under  the  soul-feeding 
Romanesque  vault  of  Santiago,  in  Seville  or 
Toledo's  Gothic  aspiration,  is  very  far  away 
under  this  limited  dome;  the  propriety  here  is 
that  of  a  bigot,  who  would  see  heresy  in  the  soar 
of  Gothic,  and  backwardness  in  the  bare  solem- 
nity of  Romanesque. 

We  were  shown  the  usual  tourist-sights,  the 
seat  in  the  choir  where  Philip  sat  when  news  was 
brought  of  the  Battle  of  Lepanto,  which  broke 
another  inroad  of  the  Mohammedan  on  Europe; 
also  the  life-size  marble  crucifix  (spoiled  by  too 
long  an  upper  lip)  which  Benvenuto  Cellini 
made,  and  which  was  carried  on  men's  backs  from 
Barcelona  to  Madrid.  Statues  of  Philip  and  his 
father,  with  the  ladies  of  their  households,  kneel 
on  either  side  of  the  altar,  rich  bronze-gilt  work, 
but  hardly  in  character  with  a  church.  Then  we 
descended  to  that  acme  of  dreariness  and  morbid 
misanthropy,  the  sunken  chamber  where  are 
buried  the  royal  family  of  Spain  since  Charles  V ; 
one  somber  coffin  rose  above  another  in  the  dark 
place.  And  art  can  make  death  so  beautiful,  art 
like  the  tombs  at  Miraflores  and  Avila!  Happy 
beings  to  have  escaped  this  dreadful  hole  of 
burial,  we  exclaimed.  Could  only  a  century  sepa- 


Madrid  and  the  Escorial      217 

rate  Isabella  in  her  Castle  of  Segovia,  or  in  the 
white  marble  peace  of  her  sepulcher  at  Granada, 
from  her  descendants'  costly  ideal  of  a  palace  and 
a  mausoleum?  As  we  stood  shivering  with  the 
formality  and  melancholy  of  it  all,  with  sympathy 
for  the  present  happy  young  King  and  Queen 
who  must  lie  here  some  day,  a  little  touch  of  senti- 
ment took  away  some  of  the  oppression.  We 
saw  on  the  tomb  of  Alfonso  XII  a  fresh  wreath! 
of  chrysanthemums.  Then,  feeling  that  any  more 
subterranean  darkness  was  insupportable,  we 
hurried  up  the  steep  staircase  from  the  Pantheon, 
through  the  heavy-bound  church,  and  out  in  the 
courtyard  —  dreary  enough,  too!  —  breathed  the 
fresh  air  with  relief. 

In  the  library  of  the  Escorial  was  the  first 
place  where  I  had  seen  the  gilt  edges  of  books,  not 
their  leather  backs,  presented  to  the  reader,  a  rich, 
strange  effect  which  later  in  the  Seraglio  at  Stam- 
boul  I  noticed  again.  We  stopped  long  to  ex- 
amine the  portraits  that  stand  between  the  book- 
cases. Philip  II  was  pale-eyed,  anaemic  and  white- 
visaged,  with  drooping,  hypochondrical  corners 
to  his  mouth.  And  I  had  pictured  him  scowling 
and  black  and  forceful!  The  Escorial  should 
have  told  me  that  not  a  forceful  personality  could 
have  built  it  but  rather  a  stubborn  ability  and 
dogged  patience,  a  narrow  consistency,  all  in  char- 
acter with  his  pale  eyes.  The  swift  degeneration 


2i8  Heroic  Spain 

of  the  Hapsburg  line  is  easily  to  be  read  in  these 
portraits.  Charles  V  (in  Spain  Charles  I),  keen 
of  face  and  energetic,  has  a  great-great-grandson, 
Charles  II,  last  of  the  line,  so  rickety  and  idiotic 
that  no  caricature  of  used-up  royal  blood  could 
go  further. 

Weary  of  sight-seeing  where  so  little  roused 
the  imagination,  we  descended  to  the  gardens, 
stiffly  restrained  too,  but  pleasant  to  loiter  in. 
So  close  was  the  monotonous  mass  of  gray  stone 
above  us,  one  did  not  have  to  look  at  it,  but  could 
gaze  out  on  the  wide  view  toward  Madrid.  Then 
at  sunset  we  went  back  to  the  church  for  an  even- 
ing service,  that  hour  of  prayer,  restful  and  beau- 
tiful all  over  Spain.  The  Pater  Noster  was 
recited,  a  litany  was  chanted,  a  meditation  was 
read  slowly  with  pauses  while  the  people  listened 
with  bowed  heads  and  closed  eyes.  Then  followed 
the  primitive,  centuries-old  Latin  hymns,  the 
•glory  of  the  church,  in  which  is  incorporated  for 
all  time  the  piercing  piety  of  the  Middle  Ages.  I 
too  closed  my  eyes  to  shut  out  the  formal  church, 
and  for  some  forgetful  moments  I  could  dream 
that  those  quavering  voices  of  old  and  young, 
so  simple,  so  sincere,  were  in  some  unspoiled 
mountain  village,  perhaps  in  that  most  soul-satis- 
fying temple  of  all  the  world,  the  Lower  Church 
of  St.  Francis :  —  Assisi  and  the  Escorial,  —  the 
human  mind  is  capable  of  wide  deviations,  from 


Madrid  and  the  Escorial      219 

the  religion  of  humble  love  to  this  haughty  con- 
tortion of  it. 

The  most  fatal  effect  of  the  Escorial  was  to  fix 
the  capital  in  Madrid,  a  spot,  as  Ford  observed, 
that  had  been  passed  over  in  contempt  by  Ibe- 
rian, Roman,  Goth,  and  Moor.  Up  to  the  build- 
ing of  the  Escorial  the  choice  of  a  capital  had 
wavered,  at  times,  in  Valladolid,  in  Toledo,  or  in 
Seville.  Philip's  mountain  palace  caused  to  be 
the  chief  city  one  of  the  worst  situated  towns  in 
Spain,  on  a  waterless  river,  with  no  commercial 
prospects,  roasting  in  summer,  swept  by  icy 
winds  the  rest  of  the  year.  It  too,  like  the  Esco- 
rial, lacks  all  soul  for  the  traveler.  Not  a  church 
worth  looking  at,  all  of  them  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  century  abominations  with  fat  cupids, 
prancing  angels,  and  posing,  self-glorifying 
saints,  not  a  cathedral  in  the  capital  of  a  country 
which  has  the  largest  number  and  most  heart- 
satisfying  cathedrals  of  the  world. 

I  daresay  if  one  lived  in  Madrid  and  had  a  full 
active  or  social  life  one  might  like  it ;  there  must 
be  some  cause  for  the  proverb  "  From  Madrid  to 
heaven,  and  in  heaven  a  peep-hole  to  look  down 
on  Madrid."  As  a  city  it  can  never  be  anything 
but  second-rate ;  the  new  residential  part  near  the 
parks  is  like  the  good  districts  of  any  average 
town.  The  famous  Puerta  del  Sol  is  filled  at 
every  hour  of  the  day  and  night  with  such  a 


22o  Heroic  Spain 

rabble  of  loafers  and  vociferating  peddlers  that 
it  takes  courage  to  push  one's  way  through.  As 
the  Court  was  absent  we  missed  seeing  the  bril- 
liant morning  hour  of  guard  mounting  before  the 
Royal  Palace.  Occasionally  some  local  sight 
would  remind  us  we  still  were  in  Spain,  the  origi- 
nal and  untamed.  Ladies  in  mantillas  would  pass 
on  their  way  to  the  late  Mass  at  midday,  a  broug- 
ham drawn  by  handsome  mules  would  go  by,  or,  if 
it  were  a  holiday,  a  few  girls  of  the  people  wore 
embroidered  shawls.  But  taken  as  a  whole,  for 
the  sightseer  Madrid  is  just  a  weariness  of  the 
spirit. 

Except,  of  course,  the  pictures,  and  I  must  add, 
the  Armory.  We  hurried  off  to  the  Prado,  up 
the  steps  past  the  bust  of  the  vigorous  saturnine 
Goya,  along  the  far-stretching  hall,  with  hardly  a 
glance  for  the  white  monks  of  Zubaran,  or  El 
Greco's  strange  canvases,  till  midway,  we  turned 
to  the  left  into  the  large  hall  that  holds  the  Velas- 
quez masterpieces.  It  is  a  sensation  in  one's  life, 
this  first  meeting  with  Velasquez  at  the  height 
of  his  powers.  The  wonderful  Doria  Pope  in 
Rome,  the  few  pictures  in  London  and  Vienna 
whet  the  appetite  for  the  supreme  feast  in  Madrid. 
It  is  an  unprecedented  collection  of  one  master 
that  no  glow  of  enthusiasm  can  exaggerate.  Can- 
vas follows  canvas,  all  the  work  of  secure,  trium- 
phant genius,  with  brush  handling  so  free  that  it 


Madrid  and  the  Escorial       221 

seems  impossible  he  painted  more  than  two  hun- 
dred years  ago.  Don  Carlos  stands  dangling  a 
glove  in  an  absolutely  natural  moment  of  non- 
chalance, Philip  IV  and  the  pompous  Duke  of 
Olivares  ride  their  proud  steeds  out  of  magnifi- 
cent skies,  the  gallant  little  Don  Baltasar  Carlos 
dashes  at  us  on  his  pot-bellied  pony,  or  stands 
a  baby  hunter  in  the  Guadarramas.  Velasquez 
painted  him  later,  a  grave,  dignified  lad  of  about 
fourteen,  always  with  a  fearless,  straight  look, 
and  he  also  painted  his  piquant  Bourbon  mother, 
Philip  IV's  first  wife;  his  second  a  wooden- faced 
Austrian,  mother  of  the  doll-like,  big-skirted  in- 
fantas. Had  Don  Baltasar  Carlos  lived,  surely 
the  race  had  not  ended  in  a  Charles  II. 

You  walk  about  the  Valasquez  room  bewil- 
dered, sorry  for  the  copyists  who  have  set  up  their 
easels  before  work  that  tells  so  unflinchingly  each 
slip  of  a  talent  what  it  is  to  be  a  master.  Portraits 
and  genre  studies;  the  lovely  bent  neck  of  the 
weaving  girl,  the  breathing  livingness  of  the 
Maids  of  Honor,  the  displeasing  dwarfs,  —  each 
canvas  is  an  achieved  success. 

At  the  end  of  the  hall  hangs  what  swiftly  be- 
came my  favorite  of  all  pictures  seen,  the  "  Sur- 
render of  Breda,"  called  "  Las  Lanzas,"  from  the 
soldiers'  spears  ranged  against  the  sky.  It  is  a 
canvas  about  the  size  of  the  "  Night  Watch  "  in 
Amsterdam.  The  two  armies  fill  the  background 


222  Heroic  Spain 

under  a  sky  that  is  a  glorious  harmony  of  cold 
blue  and  rose.  In  the  foreground  the  Fleming, 
Justin  of  Nassau,  advances  to  surrender  the  keys 
of  Breda  to  its  conqueror,  the  Marquis  Spinola, 
general  of  the  Spanish  forces,  though  by  birth 
a  Genoese.  Spinola  has  dismounted,  and  bends 
to  meet  his  enemy,  vanquished  now,  hence  in  his 
knightly  creed,  his  friend.  With  a  subtle,  delicate 
shrinking  he  has  placed  his  hand  on  his  opponent's 
shoulder,  and  in  his  face  is  an  expression  of  such 
high  chivalry,  of  such  generous  eff acement  of  self, 
of  all  that  is  best  in  man  of  courtesy  and  noble- 
mindedness,  that  the  tears  spring  to  the  eyes. 
You  return  to  it  again  and  again  and  come  away 
Tefreshed  and  ennobled.  Only  a  man  loyal  him- 
self to  the  core  could  render  such  an  emotion,  only 
a  technical  genius  of  the  first  rank  could  fix  so 
fleeting  an  instant ;  this  truly  is  thinking  in  paint, 
and  it  places  Velasquez  side  by  side  with  Leo- 
nardo da  Vinci  as  a  master  of  the  intellect.  I 
think  it  is  very  pleasant  to  learn  that  Velasquez 
knew  the  General  he  has  immortalized,  and  you 
feel  he  must  have  known,  too,  the  superb  Spanish 
hidalgos  who  stand  in  the  group  behind  the  Mar- 
quis. On  his  first  trip  to  Italy,  the  painter  sailed 
in  the  same  vessel  to  Genoa  with  Spinola,  and 
probably  sketched  him  then.  I  like  to  imagine 
the  meeting  of  two  such  spirits  of  chivalry. 
Were  the  Prado  only  Velasquez  and  the  Span- 


ISABELLA  or  PORTUGAL,  BY  TITIAN.     PRADO  GALLERY,  MADRID 


Madrid  and  the  Escorial      223 

ish  artists,  it  would  be  among  the  first  of  galleries, 
but  it  is  astonishingly  rich  in  Italian  masters  as 
well.  It  has  the  best  equestrian  portrait  in  the 
world,  Charles  V  at  the  Battle  of  Miihlberg,  a 
picture  to  be  studied  long  and  often.  The  Em- 
peror has  risen  from  illness,  he  has  had  to  be 
lifted  upon  his  horse,  but  he  has  pluckily  girded 
himself  to  take  command.  The  Venetian  red  of 
his  plumes  and  scarf  is  splendid.  Titian  has  an- 
other of  the  Emperor,  standing  with  his  Irish 
hound,  near  it  a  gem  of  woman  portraiture, 
Charles'  lovely  wife,  Isabella  of  Portugal.  It 
seems  a  strange  irony  for  such  an  exquisite  crea- 
ture to  have  been  the  mother  of  a  Philip  II. 
Philip  was  fortunate  in  his  daughters,  too,  de- 
mure, formal  little  maidens,  who  stand  with  the 
sedate  propriety  of  Spanish  infantas,  and  in  his 
sisters,  whose  long,  aristocratic  faces  Antonio 
Moro  has  left  us.  Charles  V  sent  Moro  to  Eng- 
land to  paint  Queen  Mary  for  her  young  bride- 
groom, and  here  she  sits  in  her  rich  crimson  leather 
chair,  erect  and  stiff  and  insignificant,  her  auburn 
hair  and  homely  face  not  one  to  charm  her  future 
husband  still  in  his  twenties,  she  not  far  from  the 
fatal  forty.  A  deeply  pathetic  portrait  this.  Good 
woman  she  was  personally,  despite  having  been 
made  the  scape-goat  for  a  system,  yet  one  can 
read  in  the  pinched  shrewdness  of  her  mouth  that 
she  lacked  her  grandmother's  height  of  brain, 


224  Heroic  Spain 

nor  was  she  capable  of  her  mother's  dignity  of 
sorrow,  whose  grand,  insulted  womanhood  Shake- 
speare has  rendered  so  magnificently.1  There  are 
many  other  notable  portraits  in  the  Prado;  a 
stately  matron  and  her  three  sons  by  Parmigi- 
anino;  a  rich  pigment  of  color,  Rembrandt's 
wife;  Raphael's  Cardinal, —  the  acute,  keen, 
Italian  face  so  different  from  the  Spanish  type; 
a  striking  Count  de  Berg  by  Van  Dyke.  Man- 
tegna  has  a  small  canvas,  the  "  Transito  de 
la  Virgen,"  with  the  apostles  gathered  round 
the  couch,  a  graphic  glimpse  through  the  window 
behind  of  Mantua.  Mantegna  put  thought  into 
his  work,  and  he  compels  thought  from  others; 
this  "  Transito  "  drew  me  to  it  in  the  same  brows- 
ing study  as  that  small  triptych  in  the  Uffizi. 

Then  upstairs  are  more  Italians.  The  facile 
Veronese  has  here,  curiously  enough,  a  really 
impressive  scene,  Christ  and  the  Centurion. 
There  are  many  Rubens,  and  some  peaceful 
Claude  Lorraine  sunsets  and  sunrises,  offering 
the  needed  siesta  of  quiet  in  a  full  collection. 
And  downstairs  in  the  basement  are  the  primi- 
tives, Van  Eyck,  Van  der  Weyden,  Memling, 

1  Moro  made  a  replica  of  this  portrait  (or  perhaps  the  Prado  picture 
.is  the  replica)  which  Mary  gave  to  her  Master  of  Horse.  It  now  fortu- 
nately is  in  America,  in  Mrs.  J.  L.  Gardner's  notable  collection  in  Fen- 
way Court,  Boston.  It  is  hard  to  recognize  in  the  Mary  of  the  Flemish 
Master  the  queen  of  whom  Motley  wrote  in  his  "Dutch  Republic": 
"tyrant,  bigot,  and  murderess  .  .  .  small,  lean  and  sickly,  painfully 
nearsighted  yet  with  an  eye  of  fierceness  and  fire,  her  face  wrinkled  by 
lines  of  care  and  evil  passions." 


Madrid  and  the  Escorial      225 

mystical  enough  to  refresh  the  soul  of  a  Huys- 
mans.  The  gilded  backgrounds  of  these  celestial 
annunciations,  these  interiors  of  so  intense  and 
breathless  a  reverence,  have  always  seemed  to 
me  a  pure  symbol  of  the  uncomplicated  perfection 
of  their  faith,  the  unquestioning  mental  back- 
ground of  the  age. 

After  Velasquez  it  is  not  easy  to  feel  much  en- 
thusiasm for  the  other  Spanish  painters.  Murillo 
can  only  be  really  known  in  Seville,  in  whose  gal- 
lery he  predominates  as  does  Velasquez  here. 
It  is  a  coincidence  that  both  of  Spain's  first 
painters  should  have  been  born  in  the  same  Anda- 
lusian  city,  within  twenty  years  of  each  other, 
and  that  the  ashes  of  both  should  have  been  scat- 
tered to  the  wind  in  the  French  invasion.  Zur- 
baran's  white-robed  monks,  —  he  painted  Car- 
thusians as  Murillo  did  Franciscans,  and  Roelas 
the  Jesuits,  —  are  always  effective,  but  they  miss 
being  taken  seriously  by  a  dash  of  pose  in  them. 
As  for  Ribera's  martyrdoms,  (his  portraits  are 
very  fine,)  if  chance  led  us  into  his  room,  one 
glance  and  we  fled;  it  is  not  pleasant  to  see  people 
disemboweled.  The  same  shuddering  horror  you 
feel  before  some  of  Goya's,  as  for  instance  that 
awful  but  tremendously  moving  blood-red  Dos 
de  Mayo.  Goya  is  almost  too  crabbedly  individ- 
ual to  be  liked  unreservedly.  He  is  in  a  way  the 
Hogarth  of  the  South,  with  a  gruesome,  fan- 


226  Heroic  Spain 

tastic  imagination,  quite  pitiless  to  the  vices  or 
follies  of  his  generation;  witness  the  portrait 
of  the  Infanta  Maria  Josef  a,  or  the  appalling 
group  surrounding  Charles  IV,  "  a  grocer's 
family  who  have  won  the  big  lottery  prize,"  Gau- 
tier  cleverly  said  of  it.  At  times  you  think  Goya 
had  no  elevation  of  soul,  then  you  come  on  a  por- 
trait that  shows  he  could  see  something  besides 
the  weakness  of  human  nature.  He  was  a  true 
Aragonese,  stubborn,  energetic,  analytic.  And 
it  should  never  be  forgotten  that  he  painted  in 
that  desert  of  art,  the  eighteenth  century,  and 
swept  aside  the  weak  methods  of  generations  to 
return  to  Velasquez's  vigor  of  technique. 

No  visitor  in  Madrid  can  possibly  miss  the 
Prado  gallery,  but  it  is  not  difficult  to  omit  the 
Armory;  for,  discouraged  by  going  to  see  sights 
not  worth  the  effort,  you  may  think  the  Armeria 
just  the  usual  dull  collection  found  in  capitals,  of 
interest  only  to  the  specialist.  No  greater  mis- 
take could  be  made.  This  Madrid  museum  is 
like  nothing  of  its  kind  in  Europe,  it  is  an  un- 
rivaled show,  one  hour  there  and  you  learn  vol- 
umes of  Spanish  history. 

It  consists  of  a  large  hall,  down  whose  center  is 
massed  a  splendid  array  of  horsemen,  caparisoned 
in  historic  armor.  The  manikins  have  been 
fitted  out  thoroughly.  Their  gauntleted  hands 


Madrid  and  the  Escorial      227 

hold  the  polished  spears,  and  ostrich  plumes 
wave  from  their  helmets;  they  give  an  astonish- 
ing effect  of  life.  Among  the  thirty-odd  suits 
worn  by  Charles  V,  here  is  the  identical  one  Ti- 
tian painted  in  the  equestrian  portrait,  decked 
with  the  similar  doge-red  scarf  and  plumes. 
There  is  the  gallant  little  Baltasar  Carlos'  suit 
of  mail;  the  armor  of  that  Bayard  of  Spain,  Gar- 
cilaso  de  la  Vega;  of  the  hero  of  Lepanto,  Don 
John  of  Austria,  and  some  x>f  the  banners  and 
ship-prows  of  his  victory;  the  suit  of  Charles' 
general,  the  Marquis  of  Pescara,  Vittoria  Co- 
lonna's  husband;  the  tent  of  Francis  I  at  the 
battle  of  Pavia;  the  arms  of  Juan  de  Padilla, 
who  led  the  uprising  of  the  independent  cities 
against  Charles.  History  is  followed  from  earli- 
est times  in  raw  gold  Visigothic  crowns,  the 
sword  of  Pelayo  at  Cavadonga,  the  sword  of  the 
great  slayer  of  Moors,  King  Ferdinand  el  Santo 
of  Castile,  and  the  winged-dragon  helmet  of  as 
mighty  a  battle  leader,  King  Jaime  el  Conqui- 
stador of  Aragon,  down  to  the  last  stage  of  the 
seven  hundred  years'  crusade,  in  Isabella's  armor; 
that  of  the  Gran  Capitan;  Boabdil's  engraved 
with  Moorish  letters;  and,  finally,  the  surren- 
dered keys  of  Granada.  Spain's  majestic  hour 
lives  again  here. 

As  we  left  the  Armoury,  a  present-day  scene 
presented  itself  and  it  struck  me  as  very  char- 


228  Heroic  Spain 

acteristic  of  a  country  where  the  grandee,  shop- 
keeper, and  peasant  live  side  by  side  in  friendli- 
ness. Before  us  lay  the  big  courtyard  of  the 
Royal  Palace,  the  King's  very  doorstep  as  it 
were,  and  it  overflowed  with  hundreds  of  chil- 
dren, nursemaids,  families,  and  soldiers;  the 
crowd  being  chiefly  of  a  popular  character. 
They  tell  of  strict  Spanish  etiquette,  but  it  ap- 
pears to  me  as  if  the  people  here  get  nearer  to 
their  king  than  elsewhere.  Rough  boys  and  men 
were  pouring  into  the  Armoury  to  wander  with 
pride  among  the  plumed  knights,  and  by  their 
glance  they  showed  they  felt  themselves  part  of 
the  stirring  past.  Each  knew  himself  a  cristiano 
vie  jo  l  whose  forebears  had  struck  a  blow  for  the 
Reconquista. 

1  "Io  cristiano  vie  jo  soy,  y  para  ser  Conde  esto  me  basta"  —  old 
Spanish  proverb,  quoted  by  Sancho  Panza.  Proverbs,  which  Cervantes 
called  "short  sentences  drawn  from  long  experience,"  often  show  the 
qualities  of  a  race.  In  many  of  the  popular  sayings  of  Castile  is  found 
the  strong  feeling  of  manhood's  equality: 

"Cuando  Dios  amanece,  para  todos  amanece." 

"Mientras  que  duermen  todos  son  iguales." 

"No  ocupo  mas  pies  de  tierra  el  cuerpo  del  Papa  que  el  del  sacristan." 


TOLEDO 

"  But  changeless  and  complete 
Rise  unperturbed  and  vast 
Above  our  din  and  heat 
The  turrets  of  the  Past, 
Mute  as  that  city  asleep 
Lulled  with  enchantments  deep 
Far  in  Arabian  dreamland  built 
where  all  things  last." 

WILLIAM  WATSON. 

TOLEDO  has  been  compared  to  Durham,  but  it  is 
the  similarity  between  a  splendid  lean  old  leopard 
and  a  beautiful  domestic  cat.  The  largest  river 
of  Spain,  the  Tagus,  without  a  touch  of  Eng- 
land's lovely  verdure  to  soften  it,  sweeps  impet- 
uously round  the  Spanish  ecclesiastic  city, 
through  a  wild  gorge  from  which  it  derives  its 
name  (tajo,  cut)  and  above  the  river-cliffs  rise 
sun-whitened  houses,  innumerable  monasteries, 
and  church  towers,  in  a  compact,  imposing  mass. 
Across  the  river  is  a  barren  wilderness,  solitary 
as  if  never  trod  by  foot  of  man,  and  this,  close  to 
an  historic  city.  Stern  and  a  bit  fanatic,  —  for 
she  has  lived  for  generations,  with  sword  in  hand 
to  guard  her  altars,  —  Toledo  represents  ascetic, 
exalted  Castile  as  completely  as  palm-crowned 


230  Heroic  Spain 

Seville,  stretching  out  in  the  meadows  by  the 
winding  Guadalquivir  sums  up  the  ease-loving 
character  of  Andalusia.  The  thought  of  the 
Moor  is  never  long  absent  in  the  fertile  southern 
province,  but  here,  though  for  a  time  he  ruled 
as  conqueror,  every  stone  of  the  city  tells  of 
crusading  Christian  ideals. 

Most  travelers  run  down  to  Toledo  from  Ma- 
drid for  merely  a  day,  whereas  it  is  eminently  a 
spot  for  a  pause  of  several  days.  Not  only  once 
but  a  second  and  a  third  time  should  you  cross 
the  Alcantara  bridge  and  climb  the  silent  hills 
beyond  it.  From  there  Toledo  stands  up  in 
haunting  majesty,  one  of  the  imperial  things 
in  the  world.  Wild  footpaths  lead  along 
the  hills,  so  you  can  follow  the  immense  loop 
of  the  river  and  return  to  the  city  by  St. 
Martin's  bridge. 

The  desolate  Tagus  is  as  unchanged  by  the 
centuries  as  the  hills  confining  it.  Toledo's  first 
mayor,  the  Cid,  looked  on  much  the  same  scene 
that  we  know,  nor  could  it  have  been  very  dif- 
ferent when,  earlier,  the  last  of  the  Gothic  kings, 
Roderick,  saw  the  fair  Florinda  bathing  by  St. 
Martin's  bridge,  —  which  untimely  spying  the 
legend  says  brought  the  African  invasion  on 
Spain;  the  same  as  when  King  Wamba  ruled 
here,  and  his  name  is  synonymous  with  "  as  old 
as  the  hills";  the  same  as  when  the  city's  patron, 


Toledo  231 

Leocadia,  was  hurled  down  from  the  cliffs  in 
Dacian's  persecution. 

Once  inside  the  Puerta  del  Sol  (a  real  gate- 
way, not  a  plaza  where  a  gate  once  stood,  like 
its  Madrid  namesake),  we  found  ourselves  in  a 
fretwork  of  narrow  streets  where  we  got  lost 
at  every  turning.  These  twisting  passages  were 
so  built  that  if  the  city  walls  were  captured,  the 
people  could  still  offer  a  stiff  resistance.  Zig- 
zag up  and  down  the  lanes  go,  every  few  yards 
coming  to  a  small  triangle,  out  of  which  lead 
three  narrow  ways,  —  which  to  choose  is  ever 
the  bewildering  question.  Push  on  boldly,  the 
tortuous  streets  are  worth  exploring  at  random, 
and  if  you  wander  long  enough  you  are  sure  to 
find  yourself  before  the  Cathedral  or  in  the 
famous  Zocodover  Square.  Morning  and  after- 
noon we  were  out  exploring,  with  a  good  map  to 
guide  us,  yet  up  to  the  very  last  day,  we  lost  the 
way  half  a  dozen  times.  The  constant  uncer- 
tainty was  fascinating;  only  in  such  unhurried 
rambles  does  the  genius  loci  reveal  itself.  Now 
we  stumbled  on  San  Cristo  de  la  Luz,  in  whose 
diminutive  chamber  are  Visigothic  capitals, 
Moorish  arches,  and  a  Christian  retablo;  it  was 
here  Alfonso  VI  heard  his  first  Mass  in  the  con- 
quered city,  the  Cid  Campeador  at  his  side. 
Now  we  stopped  to  see  the  empty  church  of  El 
Transito,  in  the  Mudejar  style,  built  originally 


232  Heroic  Spain 

as  a  synagogue,  and  we  found  there  an  aston- 
ishingly beautiful  arabesque  frieze.  This  Mu- 
dejar  style  (Moorish  and  Christian  architecture 
mixed)  has  here  what  I  think  is  its  most  perfect 
example,  Santa  Maria  la  Blanca,  also  a  former 
synagogue,  then  a  church,  and  at  present  na- 
tional property. 

As  usual,  our  first  visit  after  arrival,  was  to 
the  Cathedral,  not  so  easy  to  find  as  in  most 
places,  since  it  is  not  set  on  the  highest  part  of 
the  city,  and  is  shut  in  with  cluttering  houses. 
As  usual,  too,  like  most  Spanish  churches,  the 
exterior  is  meaningless;  but  the  interior  is  a 
vigorous,  pure  Gothic,  which  is  called  the  most 
national  expression  of  this  style  in  Spain.  Like 
Seville,  the  ground  plan  is  a  sola,  or  hall; 
though  the  aisles  here  lessen  in  height  so  rapidly 
that  they  give  a  far  different  effect  from  Seville's 
lofty  nave.  The  double-aisled  ambulatory  as  at 
Avila  is  unique  and  beautiful  in  its  effect.  Span- 
ish Gothic  may  be  less  artistically  faultless  than 
that  of  France,  but  certainly  its  massive  grandeur 
and  even  its  very  extravagance  render  it  many 
times  more  picturesque. 

The  primate  of  Spanish  cathedrals  is  the 
richest  in  tombs,  paintings,  rejas,  carvings, 
vestments,  and  jewels,  even  after  the  French  car- 
ried away  some  hundred  weight  of  silver  treas- 
ure. Unfortunately,  it  was  here  we  began  to 


Toledo  233 

feel  like  tourists  and  to  experience  the  jaded 
weariness  of  the  personally  conducted.  We 
had  wandered  freely  over  the  churches  of  the 
north,  for  a  slight  fee  the  verger  had  unlocked 
the  choir  and  separate  chapels,  and  then  had 
gone  off  to  let  us  examine  them  undisturbed. 
Here  the  flocking  tourist  has  brought  about  the 
pest  of  tickets  for  each  separate  part  of  the 
church,  and  the  guide,  when  one  pauses  to  loiter, 
impatiently  rattles  his  keys.  .And  one  longs  to 
loiter  in  the  most  perfect  coro  of  Spain,  where 
Maestro  Rodrigo,  and  Berruguete,  and  Vignani 
carved;  in  the  sola  capitular,  or  the  Alvaro  de 
Luna  chapel  of  florid  Gothic,  where  the  be- 
headed Grand-Constable  lies  guarded  by  four 
stone  knights  of  Santiago. 

Since  Spanish  cathedrals  were  gradual 
growths,  here  is  to  be  found,  in  a  mass  of  violent 
sculpture  called  the  Transparente,  the  bad  taste 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  The  bishop  who 
erected  the  Transparente  lies  buried  near  by, 
covered  by  a  mammoth  slab  of  brass,  on  which, 
in  bold  letters,  you  read,  "  Here  lies  dust,  ashes, 
nothing,"  an  epitaph  whose  ironic,  fatigued  sim- 
plicity does  not  ring  true;  very  different  from 
that  genuinely  humble  epitaph  in  Worcester 
Cathedral,  that  one  impressive  word  "  Miserri- 
mus."  Transparente  and  tombstone  are  subtly 
allied,  not  inappropriate  memorials  of  one  who 


234  Heroic  Spain 

was  instrumental  in  bringing  the  academic 
Bourbons  to  the  Spanish  throne  in  1700. 

In  the  sacristy  is  a  beautiful  picture,  the 
Expolio,  "  Stripping  Our  Lord  before  the 
Crucifixion,"  by  El  Greco,  the  strange  Byzan- 
tine Greek  who  drifted  to  Toledo  and  in  his 
forty  years  there  because  more  Spanish  than  the 
Spaniards.  In  his  case  the  accident  of  birth  was 
nothing;  though  born  in  Crete  of  Greek  par- 
ents, refugees  from  Constantinople,  El  Greco 
was  a  true  Castilian  soul.  He  had  known  Ven- 
ice in  the  days  of  Tintoret  and  Titian,  but  it  was 
only  when  he  came  to  Toledo  that  he  found  the 
atmosphere,  mystic  and  chivalrous,  in  which  his 
genius  could  develop.  His  was  the  spiritualized 
mysticism  of  a  Teresa  or  a  John  of  the  Cross, 
with  little  of  the  conventional  piety  of  Murillo. 
And  he  has  rendered  the  Spanish  hidalgo  as  has 
none  other,  on  his  canvas  "  they  live  an  inner 
life,  indifferent  to  the  world;  sad  with  the  nos- 
talgia for  a  higher  existence,  their  melancholy 
eyes  look  at  you  with  memories  of  a  fairer  past 
age  that  will  not  return.  They  are  the  dignified 
images  of  the  last  warrior  ascetics."  1 

There  is  no  denying  that  some  of  El  Greco's 
pictures  are  aberrations;  when  I  first  saw  him 
in  the  Escorial  gallery,  I  thought  him  eccen- 
tric to  madness.  Thanks  to  Professor  Raphael 

1  See  the  frontispiece:  Portrait  of  an  Hidalgo,  by  El  Greco. 


Toledo  235 

Domenech  of  the  Prado  School  of  Art,  I  looked 
a  second  time  and  learned  to  appreciate  him. 
"  What  he  did  ill,  no  one  did  worse,  but  what  he 
did  well,  no  one  did  better."  Toledo  has  many 
of  his  masterpieces.  In  the  Church  of  Santo 
Domingo  is  his  "  Ascension  "  and  the  two  Saint 
Johns;  in  Santo  Tome,  his  splendid  "  Burial  of 
Count  Orgaz."  The  chapel  of  San  Jose  and  the 
churches  of  San  Vicente  and  San  Nicolas  have 
some  good  examples  of  his,  and  the  Provincial 
Museum  has  a  remarkable  series  of  the  apostles 
with  a  truly  noble  representation  of  their 
Master.  El  Greco  —  by  the  way,  his  real  name 
was  Domenikos  Theotokopoulos  —  lived  with 
princely  magnificence,  his  friendship  sought  by 
the  cultivated  society  round  him,  and  on  his 
death  he  was  buried  in  San  Bartolome,  regretted 
by  the  whole  city.  His  sumptuous  way  of  life 
was  continued  by  his  son,  who  built  the  cupola 
that  covers  the  Mozarabic  Chapel  of  the 
Cathedral. 

This  brings  us  to  perhaps  the  most  interest- 
ing survival  of  the  past  that  exists  in  Spain,  the 
Mozarabic  Mass,  said  every  morning  in  the 
western  end  of  Toledo  Cathedral.  Mozarabic 
means  Mixt-Arab,  and  is  the  name  applied  to 
the  Christians  who  were  under  Moorish  rule. 
Living  isolated  from  their  fellow-believers  they 
kept  to  the  old  Gothic  ritual.  In  the  eleventh 


236  Heroic  Spain 

century  the  Christian  conqueror  of  Toledo,  Al- 
fonso VI,  after  an  artless  trial  by  fire  of  the 
rival  books,  introduced  the  Gregorian  liturgy, 
used  by  the  rest  of  Europe.  The  learned  Arch- 
bishop of  Toledo,  Cardinal  Ximenez,  thought 
the  Gothic  ritual  too  interesting  a  national  me- 
morial to  be  lost,  so  he  endowed  a  chapel  with  its 
own  chapter  of  canons. 

The  morning  after  our  arrival,  I  hastened 
down  to  the  Cathedral  to  hear  a  Mozarabic 
Mass.  It  puzzles  me  how  Ford,  the  traveler, 
could  have  written  of  it  as  he  did,  as  if  its  sim- 
plicity put  to  shame  the  later  rite,  for  a  Catholic 
could  to-day  attend  the  Mozarabic  service  with 
no  striking  feeling  of  difference.  In  some  re- 
spects it  is  simpler  than  the  Gregorian  Mass,  in 
others  more  elaborate;  thus,  for  instance,  the 
Host  is  divided  into  nine  parts,  to  represent  the 
Incarnation,  Epiphany,  Nativity,  Circumcision, 
Passion,  Death,  Redemption,  Ascension,  and 
Eternal  Kingdom.  The  kiss  of  peace  is  given 
before  the  Consecration;  the  Credo  is  recited 
after  the  offertory. 

In  my  eagerness  to  be  in  time,  I  arrived  half 
an  hour  too  early,  so  I  whiled  away  the  minutes 
watching  the  altar  boys  prepare  for  the  cere- 
mony. It  was  easy  to  read,  in  their  air  of  pro- 
prietorship that  their  duties  were  an  achieved 
ambition,  the  reward  of  good  conduct.  One  of 


Toledo  237 

the  lads  climbed  up  on  the  big  brass  eagle  of  the 
lectern  and  gave  it  an  affectionate  polish;  then, 
having  partly  illuminated  the  altar,  —  during 
the  ceremony  more  candles  were  lighted,  —  they 
whipped  out  their  smart  red  cassocks,  and  stood 
side  by  side  in  severe  precision,  to  salute  the  eight 
canons,  "  Buenos  Dias!  "  altar  boys  and  digni- 
taries bowed  with  leisurely  Spanish  courtesy.  In 
their  preparations  the  small  acolytes  had  found 
the  supply  of  altar  wine  somewhat  short,  so  more 
was  sent  for.  During  the  solemn  moments  of 
the  Mass,  a  messenger  arrived  with  an  offensive 
flask.  With  rustling  dignity  in  his  trailing  red 
gown,  the  majordomo  of  ten  swept  across  the 
chapel  to  thrust  out  the  tactless  blunderer,  and 
the  look  of  apologetic  confusion  on  his  cherub 
face,  as  he  returned  to  his  post  of  honor,  was 
adorable. 

Some  German  tourists  noisily  came  into  the 
chapel,  and  refusing  to  kneel  at  the  moment  of 
the  elevation,  the  verger,  in  a  spirit  the  founder 
would  have  applauded,  pointed  with  his  silver 
wand,  a  silent  but  inflexible  dismissal.  This  first 
morning  of  my  visit,  too,  a  group  of  hardy  coun- 
trymen came  to  the  Mozarabic  Mass;  with  cap 
in  hand  and  cloak  flung  toga-like  over  their 
muscular  shoulders,  they  knelt  on  one  knee,  as 
instinctively  graceful  as  the  shepherds  in  Mu- 
rillo's  "  Nativity."  When  the  service  was  over, 


238  Heroic  Spain 

in  respectful  quiet  despite  their  arrogant  car- 
riage, these  unlettered  men  rose  and  passed  out 
to  loiter  in  the  Cathedral  for  a  half  hour.  "  The 
rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp,  the  man's  the 
gold  for  a'  that,"  rings  often  in  the  ear  in 
Castile. 

Cardinal  Ximenez,  founder  of  the  Chapel, 
was  Castilian  to  the  core,  and  Toledo  for  him, 
just  as  for  El  Greco,  was  fittest  home.  He  was 
born  in  1436  in  the  province  of  Madrid  of  an  old 
family  that  had  fallen  in  his  day  on  moderate  cir- 
cumstances. In  Spain,  Ximenez  is  often  called 
Cisneros,  for  there  two  surnames  are  used;  the 
first  following  the  Christian  name  is  the  patro- 
nymic name  of  the  father,  the  second  that  of  the 
mother.  Sometimes  a  man  uses  his  paternal 
surname  alone,  more  seldom  his  mother's  family 
name  alone,  as  in  the  case  of  Velasquez,  whose 
father  was  a  de  Silva. 

A  studious  disposition  early  destined  Xime- 
nez to  the  priesthood,  and  following  a  few 
years'  study  in  Alcala,  which  he  was  to  raise  to 
a  world-known  university,  he  went  to  Sala- 
manca. After  a  long  stay  in  Rome,  on  his  re- 
turn to  Spain  he  wasted  some  precious  years  in 
an  unfortunate  ecclesiastic  dispute.  His  true 
worth  was  not  discovered  till  he  went,  when  over 
forty,  to  serve  in  the  Cathedral  of  Siguenza, 
where  Cardinal  Mendoza,  the  future  "  Rex 


Toledo  239 

Tertius,"  was  then  bishop.  Recognizing  the 
new  chaplain's  remarkable  powers,  he  made  him 
his  vicar-general.  But  Ximenez,  in  the  face  of 
every  chance  of  rapid  advancement  in  the 
Church,  felt  within  him  a  longing  for  the  retired 
life  of  prayer.  He  chose  the  strictest  order  of 
his  day,  and  entered  the  Franciscan  monastery 
of  San  Juan  de  los  Reyes  at  Toledo.  All  who 
know  Toledo  will  remember  it,  built  in  the  bi- 
zarre, flamboyant,  often  overladen  but  always 
grandiose  style  of  Isabella  and  Ferdinand.  On 
its  outer  walls  hang  iron  chains,  the  votive  offer- 
ings of  Christian  captives  ransomed  from  the 
Moors  in  Africa,  and  one  cannot  help  thinking 
that  the  concentrated  mind  of  the  new  novice 
received  an  indelible  impression  from  these  sou- 
venirs of  Moslem  barbarity,  a  bias  that  found 
later  expression  in  his  stern  treatment  of  the 
Moors  of  Granada  and  his  crusading  siege  of 
Oran. 

Ximenez  had  sought  a  life  of  prayer  in  San 
Juan  de  los  Reyes,  but  a  personality  such  as  his 
could  not  help  but  rise  in  acknowledged  suprem- 
acy above  those  around  him.  The  fame  of  his 
intellect  and  holiness  soon  drew  to  his  confes- 
sional the  leading  minds  of  Toledo,  and  he  found 
himself,  to  his  distress,  again  in  touch  with  the 
world.  He  retired  to  a  more  isolated  Franciscan 
monastery,  and  gave  himself  up  to  years  of 


240  Heroic  Spain 

study  and  prayer.  Men  seemed  then  to  find 
time  for  the  long  spaces  of  tranquil  thought  that 
solidify  character;  holding  the  highest  posts 
that  ambition  could  achieve,  they  seemed  to 
know  themselves  as  dust  before  the  wind.  The 
key-note  of  to-day  is  breadth  not  intensity,  and 
it  sometimes  seems  as  if  our  scattered  knowledge 
leads  to  a  more  superficial  outlook  on  the  ele- 
mental and  eternal  verities,  that  universal  edu- 
cation tends  to  universal  mediocrity.  Why  have 
so  few  to-day  the  old-time  spaciousness  of 
vision?  Is  it  because  education  then  meant  the 
development  of  the  soul  as  well  as  of  the  intel- 
lect, because  in  acknowledging  that  there  are  an 
infinite  number  of  things  beyond  reason  they  at- 
tained what  Pascal  calls  the  highest  point  of 
reason?  "  Ever  learning  and  never  attaining 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  truth  "  we  seem  indeed. 
Wholly-rounded  opportunities  were  given  in  that 
age.  Poets  and  novelists  then  were  soldiers  in 
the  roving  wars  of  Europe,1 -- Garcilaso,  Cer- 
vantes, Lope  de  Vega,  Calderon,  these  last  two 
priests  as  well,  and  Garcilaso  making  a  holy  end 
helped  by  a  grandee  who  was  a  saint,  and  Cer- 
vantes dying  in  the  habit  of  the  Assisian.  But 
I  suppose  this  carping  comparison  is  just  the 
never-ending  tendency  to  look  on  a  previous  day 

1  "Nunca  la  lanza  embot6  la  pluma,  ni  la  pluma  la  lanza,"  —  old 
Spanish  proverb. 


Toledo  241 

as  better  than  one's  own.  Jorge  Manrique  felt 
the  same  way: 

"  d  nuestro  parecer 
Cualquiera  tiempo  pasado 
Fue  mejor  " 

and  he  wrote  his  immortal  "  Coplas "  in  the 
golden  age  of  Isabella  herself. 

To  return  to  Ximenez.  After  a  long  period 
of  retirement  he  was  made,  against  his  will,  con- 
fessor to  the  Queen  at  Valladolid.  There  ex- 
ists an  account  by  a  witness  of  the  sensation  his 
thin,  ascetic  face  caused  in  the  court,  as  if  an 
early  Syrian  anchorite  had  wandered  thither. 
Three  years  later,  on  the  death  of  Mendoza,  the 
Queen's  influence  in  Rome  had  Ximenez  named 
his  successor  in  Toledo.  So  angry  was  her  con- 
fessor that  he  left  the  court.  Isabella,  gallant 
woman  of  heart  and  brain,  who  so  enthusiasti- 
cally perceived  greatness  in  others,  appealed  to 
the  Pope  to  order  Cisneros  to  accept  his  see. 

Up  to  this  the  Archbishops  of  Toledo  had 
been  men  of  great  lineage  who  lived  with  splen- 
dor. And  a  striking  succession  of  master  minds 
they  make,  lying  ready  for  an  historian  to  group 
in  a  remarkable  record;  scholars,  statesmen, 
founders  of  hospitals  and  schools,  now  a  prelate 
of  saintly  life,  now  a  leader  of  armies  like  Arch- 
bishop Rodrigo,  who  having  borne  the  standard 
of  the  Cross  in  the  thick  of  the  fight  at  Las 


242  Heroic  Spain 

Navas  de  Tolosa,  chanted  the  Te  Deum  of  vic- 
tory on  that  memorable  field,  the  first  Christian 
foothold  in  Andalusia.  Of  all  the  primates  of 
Toledo,  Mendoza,  "  Tertius  Rex,"  had  been  high- 
est in  rank  and  power.  The  monk  who  suc- 
ceeded this  prince  of  the  church  dropped  all 
pomp  and  lived  like  a  humble  Franciscan. 
Again  the  undaunted  Isabella  appealed  to  her 
friend  the  Pope  to  advise  the  new  Archbishop  to 
keep  up  the  dignity  of  his  see  before  the  people. 
Cisneros  yielded  outwardly,  but  under  the 
veneer  of  display  he  led  the  ascetic  life. 

The  Queen's  insight  into  character  had 
judged  right.  Mystic  contemplator  though  he 
was,  Ximenez  was  a  born  ruler:  prudent,  cour- 
ageous, and  firm.  He  straightened  difficulties 
and  reformed  abuses.  As  his  own  moral  char- 
acter was  stainless  and  his  disinterestedness  well 
proven,  there  was  happily  no  inconsistency  in 
his  preaching.  Gomez  tells  that  the  moral  tone 
of  society,  lay  and  ecclesiastic,  was  so  improved 
by  the  energetic  bishop  that  "men  seemed  to 
have  been  born  again." 

As  to  Ximenez'  much  criticised  attitude 
toward  the  Moors,  it  was  at  one  with  its  age.  To 
reproach  him  with  it  is  as  unreasonable  as  to 
condemn  Marcus  Aurelius  for  having  persecuted 
the  Christians,  or  George  Washington  for  having 
silently  accepted  negro  slavery.  A  man,  no 


Toledo  243 

matter  how  great  his  character,  is  limited  some- 
where by  the  standards  of  his  period.  The 
fifteenth  century  was  far  from  being  radical  in 
the  privileges  it  extended  to  free  opinion.  Even 
some  generations  later  we  find,  in  the  Palatinate, 
when  the  Elector  Frederick  III  turned  from 
Lutheranism  to  Calvinism,  in  1563,  he  forced  all 
his  subjects  under  pain  of  banishment,  to  turn 
with  him.  Within  a  few  years  his  son  changed 
them  back  to  Lutheranism,  only  to  have  them, 
under  the  next  ruler,  constrained  with  severe 
punishments  to  again  accept  the  Heidelberg 
catechism.  The  religious  history  of  most  of  the 
states  of  Europe  prove  that  the  same  theory 
was  held:  "  cujus  regio,  ejus  religio."  Ximenez 
can  plead  more  excuse  for  his  attitude  since  in 
Spain  was  the  problem  of  the  more  radical 
difference  of  Christianity  and  Islam.  He  felt, 
and  the  constant  later  revolts  somewhat  justified 
the  idea,  that  a  newly  conquered  people  is  not 
likely  to  remain  loyal,  when  they  are  bound  to- 
gether against  their  ruler  in  an  antagonistic 
creed.  So  he  went  to  Granada  in  1499  to  labor 
for  the  conversion  of  the  people. 

At  first  he  used  much  the  same  methods  that 
prevail  to-day  in  some  of  our  cities,  what  we  may 
call  the  soup-kitchen  missionary  system  to  evan- 
gelize the  emigrant.  Ximenez  instructed  the 
Mohammedan  in  doctrine,  and  he  also  gave 


244  Heroic  Spain 

presents  to  impress  the  oriental  mind.  So  effec- 
tively did  the  method  work  that  immense  num- 
bers of  citizens  embraced  the  faith.  On  one  day 
four  thousand  were  baptized.  So  far  the  treaty 
of  the  Conquest  was  not  violated,  since  the  con- 
versions were  voluntary.  When,  however,  there 
was  a  revolt  of  those  Moors  who  were  angered 
by  seeing  the  rapid  spread  of  Christianity, 
harsher  methods  than  persuasion  were  resorted 
to.  The  letter  of  the  treaty  was  kept  but  its 
spirit,  that  reflected  Isabella's  magnanimous  tol- 
erance, was  stretched  indeed.  The  first  uprising 
turned  to  open  rebellion,  and  when  this  was  put 
down,  the  majority  of  the  citizens  let  themselves 
be  baptized  to  avoid  exile  and  confiscation. 
Though  the  two  great  prelates,  the  gentle  Tala- 
vera  and  the  indomitable  Ximenez,  burning  with 
zeal,  went  about  the  city  catechising  and  in- 
structing the  poorest,  there  were  many  thousands 
of  Mohammedans  who  hated  the  religion  to 
which  outwardly  they  conformed.  A  child  to- 
day can  understand  the  futility  of  such  conver- 
sions. No  one  denies  that  Ximenez  was  stern. 
He  who  loved  learning  with  the  passionate  devo- 
tion of  a  Bede  or  an  Erasmus,  (we  all  know  the 
remark  of  Francis  I  when  confined  at  Alcala, 
"  one  Spanish  monk  has  done  what  it  would 
take  a  line  of  kings  in  France  to  accomplish  "), 
this  same  humanist  scholar  burned  in  public  bon- 


Toledo  245 

fire  the  Moslem  books,  only  reserving  the  medi- 
cal ones  for  Alcala:  surely  this  is  proof  of  his 
grim  sincerity. 

When  Isabella  died,  Ximenez  took  Ferdi- 
nand's side  against  his  impertinent  Austrian 
son-in-law.  Philip  I  did  not  live  long  enough 
to  involve  Spain  in  an  internecine  war, 
her  curse  for  ages;  and  it  was  the  great 
statesman's  hold  on  the  government,  at  the 
time  of  the  young  king's  sudden  death,  that 
saved  the  country  from  a  revolution.  Ferdi- 
nand had  the  man  to  whom  he  owed  Castile, 
created  a  Cardinal,  and  he  also  appointed 
him  Grand- Inquisitor. 

Many  hold  the  erroneous  opinion  that  Xime- 
nez was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Holy  Office  in 
Spain.  It  was  established  ten  years  before  he 
came  to  court  as  Isabella's  confessor,  and  it  was 
only  now,  in  his  sixty-first  year  that  he  had  con- 
trol in  it.  True  to  his  reforming  character  he 
set  about  changing  what  abuses  had  crept  in. 
He  fostered  the  better  religious  instruction  of 
the  newly  converted;  and  he  prosecuted  the  in- 
quisitor Lucero,  who  had  been  guilty  of  injus- 
tice. 

The  great  Cardinal-Archbishop  was  over 
threescore  and  ten  when  he  undertook  the  ex- 
pedition to  Northern  Africa.  He  had  long 
burned  to  plant  the  Church  again  where  it  had 


246  Heroic  Spain 

flourished  under  St.  Cyprian  and  St.  Augus- 
tine. As  the  pirates  of  Oran  were  a  terror  in  the 
Mediterranean,  it  was  against  that  city  he  set 
out  in  the  year  1509.  His  address  to  the  troops 
before  the  battle,  encouraging  them  against  an 
enemy  who  had  ravaged  their  coasts,  dragged 
their  children  into  slavery,  and  insulted  the 
Christian  name,  roused  the  men  to  an  heroic 
charge  up  the  hill  of  Oran  with  Spain's  battle 
cry  Santiago!  on  their  lips.  Of  the  vast  treas- 
ure found  in  the  city,  Ximenez  who  had  spent  a 
fortune  to  fit  out  the  expedition,  only  reserved 
the  Moslem  books  for  his  University  of  Alcala. 
For  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  in  the  midst 
of  state  questions,  this  remarkable  man  was  car- 
rying on  the  building  and  endowing  of  an  Uni- 
versity to  whose  halls  the  learned  minds  of 
Spain  and  Europe  were  invited.  He  was  print- 
ing at  his  own  expense  the  well-known  Polyglot 
Bible,  the  first  edition  in  their  original  texts 
of  the  Christian  Scriptures.  From  his  early 
years  a  close  student  of  the  Bible,  he  had  learned 
Chaldaic  and  Hebrew  for  its  better  study; 
every  day  on  his  knees  he  read  a  chapter  of  the 
Holy  Word.  Besides  these  interests  he  found 
time  to  build  various  hospitals,  libraries,  and 
churches,  to  organize  summer  retreats  for  the 
health  of  his  professors,  to  print  and  distribute 
free  works  on  agriculture,  to  give  dowries  to  dis- 


Toledo  247 

tressed  women,  to  visit  the  sick  in  person,  and  to 
feed  daily  thirty  poor  in  his  palace. 

Ferdinand,  a  good  ruler,  but  suspicious  and 
ungrateful,  never  had  much  love  for  the  Car- 
dinal. Yet  on  his  deathbed  he  left  him  Regent 
of  Castile,  saying  that  a  better  leader  on  account 
of  his  virtues  and  love  of  justice  could  not  be 
found  to  reestablish  order  and  morality,  and 
only  wishing  he  were  a  little  more  pliable.  Some 
idea  of  Ximenez'  genius  may  be  gathered  from  a 
hasty  review  of  his  Regency,  which  covered  the 
last  two  years  of  his  life.  It  stands  an  astonish- 
ing feat  of  noble  activity.  He  brought  order 
into  the  finances  and  paid  the  crown  debts.  He 
introduced  the  militia  system  into  the  army, 
proving  that  men  fight  better  when  they  defend 
their  own  homes.  He  strengthened  the  navy  to 
help  break  the  Moorish  pirate  Barbarossa  who 
controlled  the  sea.  He  restored  the  dockyards 
of  Seville.  He  crushed  a  French  invasion  in 
Navarre,  and  put  down  local  disorders  in  Mal- 
aga and  other  places,  for  the  nobles  took  this 
opportunity  to  again  assert  themselves.  He  ad- 
justed troubles  with  both  the  ex-queens,  Juana 
la  Loca  and  Germaine  de  Foix.  It  was  just 
four  months  before  his  death  that  the  Polyglot 
Bible  was  finished.  When  the  young  son  of  the 
printer,  dressed  in  his  best  attire,  ran  with  the 
last  sheets  to  the  Cardinal,  Ximenez  exclaimed 


248  Heroic  Spain 

fervently:  "I  thank  thee,  O  most  high  God, 
that  thou  hast  brought  this  work  to  its  longed- 
for  end!"  To-day  the  more  scientific  methods 
of  philology  have  put  the  Complutensian  Poly- 
glot in  the  shade,  but  none  deny  that  for  its 
period  it  was  a  notable  work. 

Another  of  Ximenez'  reforms,  little  known, 
was  his  advocacy  of  Las  Casas  in  the  crusade 
against  Indian  slavery  in  the  American  colo- 
nies. As  early  as  1511,  a  Dominican  preacher 
named  Montesino  gave  a  sermon  in  the  Cathe- 
dral of  Santo  Domingo,  before  the  governor 
Diego  Columbus,  in  which  he  thundered  against 
the  ill-treatment  of  the  natives.  The  monks 
were  threatened  with  expulsion  by  the  rich  set- 
tlers unless  Montesino  retracted,  whereupon  on 
the  following  Sunday,  the  brave  reformer  not 
only  repeated  his  previous  attack  but  added  fresh 
proofs.  Against  fierce  opposition  the  Domini- 
cans refused  the  sacraments  to  every  one  who 
owned  an  Indian  slave.  But  they  could  not  end 
the  evil,  so  the  passionate  Las  Casas,  whose 
whole  life  may  be  said  to  have  burned  with  fury 
for  this  cause,  returned  to  Spain  to  plead  for 
the  Indians. 

The  Regent  took  up  the  question  with  inter- 
est, and  the  commission  which  he  organized  and 
sent  out  to  the  Colonies  is  a  model  of  reforming 
government  worthy  of  study.  Just  as  it  was 


Toledo  249 

about  to  start,  fourteen  pious  Franciscans  came 
down  to  Spain  to  offer  themselves  for  the  good 
work.  Among  them  was  a  brother  of  the  King 
of  Scotland,  —  a  rather  delightful  episode  of 
the  cosmopolitanism  of  religion.  Ximenez  also 
issued  a  proclamation  forbidding  the  importa- 
tion of  negro  slaves,  for  the  colonists  had  al- 
ready learned  that  one  negro  did  the  work  of  four 
Indians.  Should  not  this  act  of  farseeing  wis- 
dom, be  set  against  his  stern -  treatment  of  the 
Moors  ? 

Ximenez  ruled  as  Regent  of  Castile  from  the 
time  of  Ferdinand's  death  to  the  coming  of 
Charles  V  to  his  distant  possessions.  The  Car- 
dinal-Archbishop, alert  in  mind  and  body  though 
over  eighty,  was  on  his  way  to  meet  the  young 
Emperor  on  his  landing  in  the  north,  when  he 
died  suddenly  at  Roa,  in  the  province  of  Burgos. 
He  was  buried  in  his  loved  Alcala,  and  his 
tomb  still  rests  in  the  dismantled  town  whose 
University  has  been  removed  to  Madrid.  Just 
thirty  years  after  the  Cardinal's  death,  one  of 
the  world's  supreme  geniuses  was  born  under 
the  shadow  of  his  University,  as  if  a  compen- 
sating Providence  would  reward  the  Fran- 
ciscan friar's  unresting  love  of  letters.  Xim- 
enez has  received  scant  justice,  but  if  the  at- 
mosphere of  culture  which  he  created  at 
Alcala,  had  aught  to  do  with  making  Cer- 


250  Heroic  Spain 

vantes  what  he  was,  the  stern  educator  did 
not  live  in  vain. 

In  Toledo  it  takes  no  effort  of  the  imagina- 
tion to  people  the  streets  with  the  figures  of  the 
past;  it  is  every-day  life  that  drops  away,  and 
the  surprise  is  that  one  does  not  meet  some  intel- 
lectual-faced cardinal,  some  hidalgo  in  velvet 
cloak  or  chased  armor.  The  stone  effigies  on  the 
tombs  of  Spanish  churches  make  it  easy  to  pic- 
ture a  certain  very  splendid  presence  that  once 
walked,  in  youth's  proud  livery,  these  silent 
streets.  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega  is  a  pure  type  of 
the  grandee,  Spain's  Philip  Sidney,  a  courtier, 
a  soldier,  a  poet  whose  gift  of  song  made  him 
the  idol  of  the  nation,  he  is  one  of  the  alluring 
figures  of  history.  By  writing  in  Virgilian 
classic  verse,  he  changed  the  rhythm  of  Span- 
ish poetry  from  that  of  the  "  Cid,"  of  Juan  de 
Mena  and  Manrique.  "  In  our  Spain,  Garcilaso 
stands  first  beyond  compare,"  wrote  a  contem- 
porary poet,  a  judgment  held  later  by  Cervantes 
and  Lope  de  Vega. 

This  lovable  hero  was  born  in  Toledo  while 
Ximenez  was  still  its  active  if  aged  Arch- 
bishop. He  came  of  distinguished  stock,  the  first 
Garcia  Laso  de  la  Vega  was  the  favorite  of 
Alfonso  XI  in  1328.  This  later  namesake  had 
for  father  a  knight  of  Santiago,  lord  of  many 
towns,  ambassador  to  Rome,  and  one  of  Isabella 


Toledo  251 

and  Ferdinand's  councilors  of  state;  on  his 
mother's  side  his  lineage  was  still  more  illustrious, 
she  was  a  Guzman,  another  of  Spain's  families 
whose  prominence  continued  for  centuries. 

Garcilaso,  who  early  showed  his  love  for  the 
liberal  arts,  received  a  finished  education.  At 
fifteen  he  became  guardsman  to  Charles  V,  and 
his  qualities  of  heart  and  brain  soon  won  him 
the  affectionate  admiration  of  the  court. 
"  Comely  in  action,  noble  in  speech,  gentle  in  sen- 
timent, vehement  in  friendship,  nature  had  made 
his  body  a  fitting  temple  for  his  soul."  And 
Spain  can  show  this  harmony  in  many  of  her 
sons.  Some  untranslatable  words  describe  Gar- 
cilaso, hermosamente  varonil,  the  superb  man- 
hood of  beauty.  During  the  Emperor's  wars 
in  Italy  he  fought  bravely,  and  at  the  Battle  of 
Pavia,  where  Pescara's  lions  of  Spain  carried 
all  before  them,  he  won  distinction.  He  was 
not  merely  a  soldier  in  Italy,  his  richly-endowed 
nature  avidly  seized  on  her  art  and  learning. 
Cardinal  Bembo  calls  him  "  best  loved  and 
most  welcome  of  all  the  Spaniards  that  ever 
come  to  us."  Like  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  the  young 
poet  was  not  destined  to  reach  middle  age;  a 
short  thirty-three  years  is  his  record.  At  a  siege 
near  Frejus,  in  the  south  of  France,  he  fell 
wounded  into  the  arms  of  his  dearest  friend,  the 
Marquis  de  Lombay,  and  in  spite  of  Charles 


252  Heroic  Spain 

V  sending  his  skilled  physician  and  coming  in 
person  to  visit  the  wounded  knight,  he  died. 
He  was  buried  among  his  ancestors  in  the 
church  of  San  Pedro  Martir,  in  Toledo,"  where 
every  stone  in  the  city  is  his  monument,"  wrote 
the  euphuistic  Gongora. 

Truly  that  age  was  past  rivalry  in  the  appeal- 
ingly  noble  characters  it  produced,  fine  spirits 
of  heroism,  fit  inheritors  of  Isabella's  period 
that  had  prepared  the  soil  for  such  a  flowering. 
A  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega  is  the  bosom  friend  of 
a  Francis  Borgia,  a  Francis  Borgia  communes 
with  a  Teresa  de  Jesus  with  the  intense  pleasure 
of  feeling  souls  akin,  an  Ignatius  Loyola  serves 
as  guide  to  a  Francis  Xavier,  and  so  on,  these 
noted  lives  touch  and  overlap.  What  an  array 
the  first  fifty  years  of  the  sixteenth  century  can 
show!  1503  Garcilaso  was  born,  also  Diego 
Hurtado  de  Mendoza,  the  noted  diplomat  and 
patron  of  letters;  1504  Luis  de  Granada,  the 
religious  writer;  1506  St.  Francis  Xavier  of  Na- 
varre, who  died  the  great  missionary  of  the  East ; 
1510  St.  Francis  Borgia;  1515  St.  Teresa,  "  fair 
sister  of  the  seraphim";  1529  Luis  de  Leon, 
Spain's  best  lyric  poet;  1534  Fernando  de 
Herrera,  another  poet;  1542,  St.  John  of  the 
Cross,  that  mystic  flame  of  Divine  love;  1545, 
the  dashing  hero  of  Lepanto,  Don  John  of  Aus- 
tria ;  and  final  glory  of  this  half  century,  and  of 


Toledo  253 

all  centuries,  1547,  Miguel  de  Cervantes.  The 
opening  of  the  next  century  was  fecund  in  men 
of  creative  genius:  1599,  Velasquez;  1616,  Cald- 
eron;  1617,  Murillo,  but  to  one  who  loves  Espana 
la  Tieroica,  the  earlier  age  is  dearer. 

The  gray  city  on  the  Tagus  is  worthy  of  such 
citizens,  "  fit  compeer  for  such  high  company." 
So  many  are  her  associations  that  one  turns  aside 
in  irresistible  digressions.  In  a  palace  near  Santo 
Tome,  Isabella  of  Portugal,  Charles  V  's  wife, 
died:  to  those  who  know  Titian's  portrait  of 
her  in  the  Prado,  she  is  a  beautiful,  living 
presence.  Francis  Borgia  who  in  early  youth 
had  married  one  of  her  ladies  in  waiting,  was  the 
equerry  appointed  to  escort  her  dead  body  to 
Granada,  where  it  was  to  be  laid  in  the  Chapel 
Royal.  When  the  coffin  was  opened  to  verify 
the  Empress,  she  who  had  been  all  loveliness  so 
short  a  time  before  was  changed  to  so  horrible  a 
sight  that  the  Marquis  de  Lombay  is  said  to  have 
exclaimed,  "  Never  more  will  I  serve  a  master 
who  can  die!"  The  Hound  of  Heaven  was  in 
pursuit  of  grand  quarry  here.  A  few  years  be- 
fore, the  death  of  Garcilaso  his  friend  had  sobered 
Francis.  Now  came  the  loss  of  his  cherished  wife, 
with  whom  he  had  lived  in  truly  holy  wedlock: 
in  Catalonia  where  he  was  the  Emperor's  viceroy, 
a  lady  asked  the  Marquesa  one  day  why  she  of 
such  high  standing  and  beauty  dressed  so  plainly, 


254  Heroic  Spain 

and  she  answered  how  could  she  do  otherwise 
when  her  husband  wore  a  hair-shirt  beneath  his 
velvet.  Lombay  succeeded  to  his  father's  estates 
and  the  title  of  Duke  of  Gandia,  his  children  — 
who  eventually  rose  to  distinction  —  were  a  nat- 
ural temptation  to  stifle  the  higher  call  of  which 
he  was  conscious: 

"  For,  though  I  knew  His  love  who  followed, 

Yet  was  I  sore  adread 
Lest,  having  Him,  I  must  have  naught  beside." 

It  was  a  tremendous  decision  to  make,  com- 
pletely to  relinquish  a  future  of  international  in- 
fluence; relentlessly  the  heavenly  Feet  pursued: 

"  I  fled  Him,  down  the  nights  and  down  the  days ; 
I  fled  Him,  down  the  arches  of  the  years ; 
I  fled  Him,  down  the  labyrinthine  ways 
Of  my  own  mind ;   and  in  the  midst  of  tears 
I  hid  from  Him,  and  under  running  laughter. 
Up  vistaed  hopes  I  sped; 
And  shot,  precipitated 
Adown  Titanic  glooms  of  chasmed  fears, 
From  those  strong  Feet  that  followed,  followed  after. 
But  with  unhurried  chase, 
And  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed, 
Majestic  instancy, 
They  beat  —  and  a  Voice  beat 
More  instant  than  the  Feet  — 
6  All  things  betray  thee  who  betrayest  Me.'  "  1 
1  "The  Hound  of  Heaven":  Francis  Thompson. 


Toledo  255 

The  compelling  Voice  won.  Having  settled  his 
children,  the  Duke  of  Gandia  gave  up  titles 
and  estates  to  enter  the  Company  of  Jesus,  of 
which  he  has  been  called  the  second  founder,  so 
fruitful  were  the  years  of  his  generalship. 

The  death  of  Isabella  of  Portugal  is  connected 
with  another  foremost  member  of  the  Compania. 
The  Pope  sent  Cardinal  Farnese  to  carry  his  con- 
dolences to  the  Emperor,  and  the  papal  suite 
lodged  in  a  house  of  Toledo  near  that  of  a  widow 
named  Ribadeneyra.  Her  willful,  high-spirited 
and  captivating  boy  Pedro  attached  himself  vol- 
untarily to  the  embassy,  and  so  won  the  notice  of 
the  Cardinal  that  he  was  taken  back  to  Rome, 
where,  by  another  hap-hazard  in  his  life,  he  fell 
under  the  influence  of  St.  Ignatius  Loyola, 
became  his  loved  pupil  and  future  biographer. 
The  books  of  this  delightful  Pedro,  telling  the 
early  history  of  the  Jesuit  Order  make  as  solidly 
interesting  a  bout  of  reading  as  can  while  away 
a  month.  He  was  not  only  the  confidant  of  the 
first  General,  but  of  his  two  successors,  Lainez 
and  Borgia,  he  helped  St.  Charles  Borromeo  in  his 
reforms  at  Milan,  and  lived  long  enough  to  rejoice 
on  the  day  of  his  great  master's  beatification,  1609. 

In  Toledo  many  a  time  Cervantes  strolled,  here 
he  has  set  several  of  the  interesting  "  Novelas 
Exemplares  " ;  St.  Teresa  founded  one  of  her 
houses  here,  described  in  her  "  Libro  de  las 


256  Heroic  Spain 

Fundaciones,"  a  companion  book  to  the 
"  Novelas  " ;  that  prodigy  of  improvization,  Lope 
de  Vega,  also  placed  some  dramas  in  these  dark 
winding  streets;  and  in  the  Jesuit  house  the 
historian  Mariana,  a  friend  of  Ribadeneyra> 
browsed  over  his  work,  called  by  Ticknor  "  the 
most  remarkable  union  of  picturesque  chronic- 
ling with  sober  fact  that  the  world  has  ever  seen." 
Our  days  in  Toledo  sped  all  too  fast.  For  me 
it  is  one  of  those  few  fascinating  cities  of  the 
world  that  rouses  a  recurrent  longing  to  return. 
The  impressive,  solitary  walk  above  the  Tagus 
gorge  at  the  hour  of  sunset  is  an  unforgettable 
memory.  Another  walk  leads  to  San  Cristo-in- 
the-fields,  the  legend  of  whose  crucifix,  with  one 
arm  hanging  pendant,  has  been  told  by  Becquer ; 
beyond  this  church,  across  the  vega,  where  the 
Tagus  spreads  out  in  relief  from  the  confining 
gorge  behind,  is  the  Fdbrica  de  Armas,  where 
good  Toledan  blades  are  made,  so  elastic  that  they 
are  packed  in  boxes  curled  up  like  the  mainspring 
of  a  watch.  Within  the  town  the  rambles  are 
endless,  now  down  the  step-cut  hill,  past  the 
Plateresque  facade  of  Santa  Cruz  hospital, 
founded  by  Cardinal  Mendoza;  now  out  by  the 
one  sloping  side  of  the  city  to  another  hospital, 
where  the  sculptor  Berruguete  died,  and  lies 
buried  near  his  last  work,  the  marble  tomb  of  the 
founder,  Cardinal  Tavera.  One  day  in  the 


TOMB  OF  BISHOP  SAN  SEGUNDO,  BY  BERRUGUETE,  AVILA 


Toledo  257 

narrow  street,  hearing  the  sound  of  singing,  I  en- 
tered a  monastery  church,  to  listen  for  an  en- 
chanted hour  to  a  choir  of  male  voices  admirably 
trained.1  There  is  about  this  town  an  atmo- 
sphere that  makes  you  sure  that  real  peace  and 
holiness  lie  within  the  looming  convent  walls 
under  which  you  pass.  The  wise  Chinese  states* 
man,  Kang  Yu  Wei,  who  has  toured  the  world 
studying  its  religions,  said  he  found  in  a 
monastery  of  Toledo  an  impressive  spirit  of 
devout  silence. 

We  carried  away  a  beautiful  last  picture  of 
the  "  Crown  of  Spain,"  as  her  loyal  son  Padilla 
called  her.  We  were  to  catch  the  night  train  to 
Andalusia,  at  Castillejo  on  the  express  route 
It  was  a  night  with  an  early  moon.  So  white  and 
romantic  lay  the  city  streets  that  we  sent  the 
luggage  by  the  diligence  and  went  on  foot  to  the 
distant  station.  When  we  crossed  the  Alcantara 
bridge,  we  turned  to  look  back  at  the  climbing 
mass  of  houses  and  churches.  With  a  feeling 
of  sadness  we  gazed  at  the  old  mediaeval  city, 
so  far  from  the  fret  of  modern  life.  This  was  to 
be,  we  thought,  our  last  impression  of  the  Castiles. 
Andalusia,  enticing,  warm  in  the  sun,  facile,  im- 
pudent, lay  ahead.  Farewell  to  the  grave, 
courteous  Castilian!  Farewell  to  the  valorous 
stoic-heart  of  Spain ! 

1 "  Donde  hay  musica,  no  puede  haber  cosa  mala."  —  Spanish 
proverb. 


CORDOVA   AND    GRANADA 

"  The  art  of  the  Alhambra  is  eminently  decorative, 
light,  and  smiling;  it  expresses  the  well  being,  the  re- 
pose, the  riches  of  life ;  its  grace  lay  almost  entirely  in 
its  youth.  Not  having  the  severe  lines  that  rest  the  eye, 
these  works  paled  when  their  first  freshness  faded. 
Theirs  was  a  delicate  beauty  that  has  suffered  more  than 
others  from  the  deterioration  of  its  details." 

RENE  BAZIN. 

IN  his  "  Terre  d '  Espagne,"  M.  Rene  Bazin 
speaks  of  the  faded  city  of  Cordova,  and  the  term 
is  singularly  exact.  It  is  a  tranquil,  faded  ghost, 
not  a  nightmare  ghost,  but  an  aloof,  melancholy 
specter.  I  have  been  haunted  by  it  often  since  the 
day  and  night  spent  there.  Dull  and  unimpor- 
tant as  it  now  is,  hard  to  be  imagined  as  the 
Athens  of  the  West  with  almost  a  million  inhabi- 
tants and  an  enlightened  dynasty  of  Caliphs,  yet, 
like  a  true  ghost,  vague  in  feature,  Cordova 
succeeds  in  making  itself  unforgettable.  The 
past  covers  it  like  a  mist.  It  gave  me  more  the 
sensation  of  the  Moslem  than  any  other  spot  in 
Spain:  Allah,  not  Christ,  is  its  brooding  spirit. 
We  strolled  hither  and  thither  through  its  pre- 
ternaturally  quiet  streets  which  are  lined  with 


Cordova  and  Granada        259 

two-storied  white  or  pinkish  houses.  Every  few 
minutes  we  stopped  with  exclamations  of  delight 
to  gaze  through  the  iron  grilles  at  the  tiled  and 
marble  patios,  here  seen  for  the  first  time.  "  A 
patio!  How  shall  I  describe  a  patio!  "  exclaimed 
De  Amicis,  when  he  first  came  into  Andalusia. 
"  It  is  not  a  garden,  it  is  not  a  room,  it  is  not  a 
courtyard,  it  is  the  three  in  one,  —  small,  grace- 
ful, and  mysterious."  They  are  so  spotless  a  king 
could  eat  off  their  paving-stones.  Isolated  from 
the  stir  of  the  world,  they  breathe  that  intimate 
quiet  of  the  spirit  felt  in  the  pictures  of  the  Primi- 
tives. To  wander  for  the  first  time  over  a  city 
filled  with  these  oases,  gives  that  exhilaration  of 
novelty  which  as  a  rule  the  traveler  has  long  since 
lost  with  his  first  journeys. 

I  should  not  say  our  very  vivid  impression  of 
Cordova  depended  on  chance  details,  —  the  hour 
of  arrival,  a  personal  mood,  the  weather.  Of 
course  the  strangeness  was  heightened  by  our  com- 
ing from  the  north,  through  a  cold  night  of  travel 
on  the  train  that  made  the  transition  from  the 
central  plateau  of  the  Castiles  to  the  semi-tropical 
coast  belt  of  Andalusia,  an  abrupt  one.  Toledo, 
the  last  seen  Castilian  town,  had  been  so  dis- 
tinctly Christian  in  spite  of  Moorish  remains,  and 
our  night-flitting  over  the  level  sea  of  La  Mancha 
was  so  possessed  by  that  espanol  neto,  the  adven- 
turesome Don,  that  suddenly  to  awake  among 


260  Heroic  Spain 

palm  trees  and  oranges  gave  the  sensation  of  an- 
other race  and  climate.  It  was  this  province  with 
its  astonishing  fertility  that  had  been  the  land  of 
Elysium  of  the  ancients. 

Having  grown  familiar  with  the  orderly  streets 
of  Cordova  by  day,  it  was  quite  without  fear  that 
we  took  a  night  ramble.  Not  a  soul  was  astir. 
What  were  they  doing,  these  cloistered  people? 
It  was  as  deserted  as  Stamboul  at  night,  more 
lonely  even,  for  here  was  not  a  single  yellow  cur 
to  bay  the  moon,  nor  the  iron  beat  of  the  watch- 
man's staff;  and  though  like  the  Orient  in  some 
aspects,  these  streets  were  far  too  orderly  and  the 
houses  too  spotless.  Perhaps  there  lay  the  source 
of  the  indefinable  fascination;  this  was  neither 
East  nor  West,  but  a  place  stranded  in  time, 
made  by  circumstances  that  never  will  be  re- 
peated. The  Oriental  influenced  the  Spaniard 
deeply,  a  psychological  as  well  as  a  racial  in- 
fluence. I  often  felt  that  the  dignified  gravity 
which  so  distinguishes  a  Spaniard  from  his  fellow 
Latins  is  a  trait  acquired  unconsciously  from  his 
Arab  neighbors:  nothing  like  it  is  found  except 
among  races  whose  ancestors  dwelt  in  the  desert. 
Also  the  excessive  generosity  and  hospitality 
of  the  Spaniard  are  oriental  virtues,  just  as  the 
Andalusian  procrastination  and  acceptance  of 
fate  are  oriental  failings.  We  too  often  forget 
that  there  were  generations  when,  religious  hatred 


Cordova  and  Granada       261 

quieting  down,  the  two  peoples  lived  side  by  side 
in  friendly  consideration.  If  the  Christian  gained 
from  the  Moslem,  the  Moor  in  Spain  was  in- 
fluenced no  less  potently  by  the  standards  of  the 
European.  He  became  a  very  different  being 
from  his  brother  in  northern  Africa.  He  learned 
to  gather  libraries,  to  express  himself  in  buildings 
where  he  translated  his  nomad  carpet  into  colored 
stucco;  much  of  his  traditional  jealousy  was  laid 
aside  and  Moorish  ladies  appeared  at  the  tourna- 
ments to  applaud  their  Moorish  cavaliers  who 
tilted  with  the  same  rules  of  romantic  chivalry  as 
the  Christian  knights.  Moslem  civilization  could 
even  boast  some  femmes  savantes.  The  stimulus 
of  the  two  opposing  races  gave  Spain  just  the  im- 
petus she  needed,  and  the  conqueror  lost  with  his 
very  victory.  When  all  men  think  the  same  way 
without  the  spur  of  competition,  inaction  and  ill- 
health  are  sure  to  follow.  Perhaps  the  upholders 
of  law  and  order  need  not  worry  too  much  to- 
day over  the  anarchists  and  socialists  in  the  com- 
mercial districts  of  Spain:  is  not  the  health  of  a 
nation  quickened  by  struggle? 

The  soul  of  a  Spanish  city  is  always  the 
Cathedral,  and  Cordova  has  what  it  called  one, 
but  it  is  no  more  a  Christian  church  than  the 
Caaba  at  Mecca.  The  canons  in  Charles  V  's  time 
tore  out  the  center  of  the  Mosque  and  built  a 
Plat eresque- Gothic  capilla  mayor  and  coro.  It 


262  Heroic  Spain 

was  an  ignorant  thing  to  do,  and  when  the  Em- 
peror saw  their  work  he  exclaimed  in  disgust, 
"  You  have  built  here  what  anyone  might  have 
built  elsewhere,  but  you  have  destroyed  what  was 
unique  in  the  world!  "  Nevertheless,  those  old 
canons  had  some  excuse.  They  felt  that  they 
could  not  pray  in  a  proper  Christian  manner  un- 
der the  low,  oppressing  roof  of  Islam.  Instead 
of  "  Christe  Eleison,"  it  was  "  Allah  illal  allah, 
ve  Mahommed  recoul "  that  came  to  their  lips 
in  abominable  heresy,  so  in  desperation  they  put 
up  the  incongruous  enclosure  and  tried  to  shut 
Islam  out. 

A  building  every  one  of  whose  stones  has  been 
laid  in  earnest  faith,  seems  to  have  a  spirit  that 
will  never  desert  it,  let  the  ritual  change  as  it  may. 
Santa  Sophia  is  Christian  in  spite  of  eight 
thousand  Mussulmans  prostrated  there  on  the 
27th  of  Ramazan:  the  Gregorian  chant  still 
echoes  in  Westminster  Abbey.  So  here  the 
canons'  efforts  were  in  vain,  the  Mezquita  makes 
heretics  of  us  all,  we  turn  to  the  Mihrab  as  the 
holy  of  holies,  not  to  the  High  Altar. 

The  Mihrab  is  a  dream  of  art,  the  mosaics  are 
richer  and  softer  in  hue  than  an  eastern  rug. 
Leo,  the  Christian  Emperor  on  the  Bosphorus, 
sent  Byzantine  workmen  to  teach  the  Caliph  this 
art.  The  enclosing  carvings  have  the  distinction 
of  being  in  marble,  not  in  the  customary  plaster, 


Cordova  and  Granada       263 

also  a  Christian  innovation.  "  Let  us  rear  a 
mosque  which  shall  surpass  that  of  Bagdad,  of 
Damascus,  and  of  Jerusalem,  a  mosque  which 
shall  become  the  Mecca  of  the  West,"  said  the 
founders  in  the  eighth  century;  and  there  is  a 
tradition  that  the  Caliph  himself  worked  an  hour 
a  day  with  the  builders.  It  is  truly  "  unique  in  the 
world,"  for  nothing  was  ever  like  these  myriad 
aisles,  forty  in  one  direction  crossed  by  twenty  in 
another,  with  nine  hundred  short  pillars  of  every 
kind  of  marble  —  green,  red,  gray,  brown,  fluted 
white — holding  up  the  roof.  These  pillars  are 
baseless  and  only  thirteen  feet  in  height;  and 
arches  of  an  ugly  red  and  yellow  spring  in  two 
tiers  from  column  to  column.  The  effect  is  incred- 
ibly original  and  eccentric, —  a  veritable  forest  of 
pillars.  The  fatalist  spirit  of  Mohammed,  the 
acceptance  of  life's  limitation,  is  insistent  here, 
the  desert  Arab's  attitude  of  adoration,  forehead 
prone  to  earth,  is  forced  on  you:  to  kneel  with 
upraised  face  is  impossible  under  so  low  a  roof; 
were  there  the  usual  hanging  balls  and  roc's  eggs, 
even  the  Inquistor- General  himself  would  have 
genuflected  toward  Mecca !  As  I  wandered  about 
the  Mezquita,  the  two  creeds  seemed  to  formulate 
themselves  more  distinctly  for  me:  one,  soaring 
and  idealistic,  channel  for  the  loftiest  aspirations 
of  the  soul,  the  other  a  magnificent  step  forward 
from  the  lower  forms  of  worship  about  it  in  the 


264  Heroic  Spain 

East,  nevertheless  limited,  so  far  and  not  beyond, 
not  cleaving  to  the  impossible,  to  the  unattainable. 
"Be  perfect  even  as  your  Father  in  heaven  is 
perfect  "  was  not  taught  by  Mohammed.  Islam- 
ism  is  a  very  noble  average,  and  perhaps  because 
men  in  general  are  the  average,  it  may  seem  better 
to  satisfy  them.  Christianity  is  a  religion  for  the 
chosen  souls  of  humanity,  only  by  aiming  at  the 
impossible  can  the  best  in  man  develop.  The 
majority  of  us  are  not  chosen  souls,  hence  we  have 
the  bitter  inconsistencies  between  the  theory  and 
the  practice  of  our  faith  to-day;  and  yet,  once 
the  vision  of  the  unspeakable  soul-paradise  of  the 
mystic  has  been  conceived  of,  to  rest  satisfied  with 
an  average  religion  is  impossible.  Islam  makes 
men  happy  with  a  dreaming  bliss  that  veils  the 
sun,  Christianity  bids  you  look  up  at  the  sun 
whether  it  blinds  you  or  not,  and  here  and  there 
arise  souls  that  can  bear  the  vision  and  help  weak 
eyes  to  see. 

When  we  left  the  Mosque,  the  obsession  of  the 
East  still  continued  in  the  courtyard,  where  about 
the  fountain  sat  groups  of  idlers  only  wanting 
the  fez  and  turban  for  completion.  Once  the 
Mezquita  opened  on  this  court,  there  was  no 
dividing  wall,  the  trees  planted  in  symmetrical 
lines  carried  on  the  rows  of  columns  within,  and 
an  absolutely  enchanting  sight  it  must  have  been 
to  look  from  this  orange  grove  far  into  the  dim  in- 


Cordova  and  Granada        265 

terior  of  the  Mosque,  lighted  every  evening  with 
some  five  thousand  hanging  lamps. 

All  tourists  in  Spain  go  to  Granada,  so  they 
know  the  confusing  station  of  Bobadilla  where 
trains  from  north,  south,  east,  and  west,  meet  and 
exchange  passengers;  the  journey  from  there  on 
to  Granada  gives  a  beautiful  glimpse  of  Anda- 
lusia; picturesquely  set  towns,  scattered  white 
villas,  olive  groves,  even  in  winter  the  grass  as 
green  as  spring.  As  apples,  in  the  Basque 
provinces,  and  carrots  at  Toledo,  so  here  oranges 
were  piled  up  in  masses.  The  last  thirty  miles 
of  the  journey  were  through  the  historic  vega, 
a  veritable  garden  of  Eden  in  fertility.  Before 
we  reached  Granada  it  was  dark  and  above  the 
city  was  rising  an  early  moon  as  big  as  one  in  a 
Japanese  print.  The  proprietor  of  the  Pension- 
Villa  Carmona  in  the  Alhambra  grounds  was 
there  to  meet  us,  and  we  soon  rattled  off  for  the 
long  drive  up  to  the  Moorish  citadel. 

A  night  arrival  at  Granada  enhances  the 
romantic  effect.  It  is  mysterious  to  turn  in  from 
the  noisy  streets  of  the  town  at  the  Carlo  Quinto 
gate  and  under  the  heavy  foliage  of  elm  trees 
slowly  to  mount  the  Alhambra  hill;  there  is  a 
gurgle  and  rush  of  running  water  on  every  side, 
one  has  the  feeling  of  being  in  a  thick  Alpine 
forest.  The  horses  mount  slowly,  wind  and 
turn,  pass  through  various  gates  and  at  length 


266  Heroic  Spain 

you  are  in  the  small  village  of  the  citadel,  and  in 
three  minutes  can  walk  right  into  the  Caliph's 
palace.  Spain  cannot  show  many  such  beautiful 
northern  parks,  with  a  growth  of  ivy  and  a 
shimmer  of  arrow-headed  leaves  under  the  elm 
trees  where  nightingales  sing  in  season. 

It  was  Ford  I  think  who  started  the  state- 
ment which  most  guide  books  have  gone  on 
repeating  that  the  Duke  of  Wellington  planted 
these  elms  ("  the  Duke  "  occupies  more  space  in 
Murray's  Handbook  than  los  Reyes  Catolicos 
themselves!)  He  may  have  planted  some,  but 
a  certain  old  book  of  travels,  yellow  with  age, 
tell  us  that  just  these  same  elm  trees  were  growing 
and  just  the  same  kind  of  songster  singing  in 
1789.  "The  ascent  toward  the  Alhainbra," 
wrote  the  Rev.  Joseph  Townsend  in  that  year, 
"  is  through  a  shady  and  well  watered  grove 
of  elms  abounding  with  nightingales  whose 
melodious  warbling  is  not  confined  to  the  mid- 
night hour;  here,  incessant,  it  is  equally  the  de- 
light of  noon." 

This  part  of  Granada  is  charming.  But  the 
city  below  is  so  dirty  and  ill-conditioned  that  it 
would  spoil  the  Alhambra  for  a  long  stay.  Even 
in  the  darkness  on  the  night  of  our  arrival  it  was 
easy  to  discern  what  a  different  aspect  it  had 
from  most  Spanish  towns,  which,  while  they  are 
often  poor,  are  frugally  clean  and  self-respect- 


Cordova  and  Granada       267 

ing.  In  Granada  the  people  appeared  ill- 
tempered,  if  you  paused  anywhere,  diseased 
children  gathered  in  a  persistent  begging  circle, 
and  the  fierce  copper-colored  gypsies  were  so 
diabolically  bold  in  glance  and  act  that  they 
made  a  walk  in  any  of  the  suburbs  too  danger- 
ous to  be  repeated.  We  had  often  turned  off 
the  beaten  track  in  the  Asturias,  in  Galicia,  and 
Castile,  without  the  least  fear,  but  Granada  will 
remain  for  me  the  one  throughly  disagreeable, 
frightening  spot  in  Spain. 

Described  as  the  Alhambra  has  been,  it  would 
be  fatuous  to  try  it  again.  I  can  only  give  super- 
ficial personal  impressions.  There  is  no  use  in 
disguising  that  this  style  of  architecture  disap- 
pointed me  enormously.  I  could  admire  its 
extreme  elegance,  the  details  of  the  artesonado 
ceilings,  the  ajimez  windows,  I  could  acknowl- 
edge it  was  fairy-like,  a  charming  caprice, 
exquisite  jewel-box  work:  as  a  whole  it  left  me 
quite  cold.  It  was  too  small,  it  lacked  height, 
there  was  no  grandeur  about  it,  —  and  all  so 
newly  done  up  with  restorations!  The  first 
visit  gave  me  an  effect  of  trumpery,  and  even 
after  I  had  seen  it  daily  for  two  weeks,  I  could 
not  forget  that  these  mathematically  correct 
designs,  one  yard  very  like  the  next,  were  im- 
printed by  an  iron  mold  on  wet  plaster.  This 
was  skilled  artisan's  work,  not  the  intellectual 


268  Heroic  Spain 

thought  of  the  architect ;  here  was  no  cutting  of 
enduring,  masculine  stone  with  the  individual 
freedom  of  genius.  Decorations  of  Cufic  mottoes 
are  effective,  but  they  can  never  compete  with  a 
Parthenon  frieze,  with  a  Chartres  or  Santiago 
portal.  Fantasy  was  here,  not  imagination; 
again  I  felt  the  bound  limit  of  Islam. 

Enough  for  the  negative  side.  For  praise,  if 
the  Alhambra  itself  is  disappointing,  its  setting 
is  imperial.  The  view  on  which  you  look  out 
from  its  romantic  ajimez  windows  has  few  equals 
in  the  world,  and  accounts  easily  for  the 
^supremacy  of  this  spot  in  man's  thought.  You 
look  down  on  the  ravine  of  the  Darro,  the  white 
Generalife  near  by,  across  the  river,  the  piled-up 
houses  of  Granada  backed  by  near  hills  covered 
with  cactus.  From  the  Torre  de  la  Vela  is  a 
grander  view.  The  vega  with  towns  and  historic 
battlefields  lies  below,  and  you  try  to  pick  out 
Santa  Fe,  which  sprang  up  in  eighty  days  to 
house  the  Christian  troops,  or  Zubia,  where 
Isabella  was  almost  captured,  or  Puente  de 
Pinos,  which  the  discouraged  Columbus  had 
reached  when  the  Queen's  messenger  brought 
him  back  to  arrange  for  the  great  voyage.  On 
this  tower,  after  seven  and  a  half  centuries  of 
Moorish  rule,  the  first  Christian  standard  was 
hoisted  by  Cardinal  Mendoza,  on  January  2d, 
1492,  festival  still  of  the  countryside,  when  the 


Cordova  and  Granada       269 

fountains  play  again  in  the  Alhambra,  and  down 
in  the  Royal  Chapel  the  Queen's  illuminated 
missal  is  used  on  the  altar.  All  Christian  Europe 
rejoiced  with  Spain,  and  Henry  VII  in  England 
had  a  special  Te  Deum  chanted  in  gratitude. 
While  on  one  side  is  this  tropical  vega  on  the 
other  is  the  glorious  Sierra  Nevada,  clothed  in 
perpetual  snow.  So  close  are  the  mountains  that 
on  certain  days  it  seemed  as  if  a  short  hour's  walk 
could  reach  them,  closer  than  the  Jungfrau  to 
Miirren.  It  is  the  most  untarnished  expanse  of 
snow  I  have  seen  on  any  mountains.  We  often 
climbed  the  tower  for  the  sunset,  and  one  evening 
a  genuine  Alpine  glow  made  the  Sierras  magnifi- 
cent past  description.  "  Ill-fated  the  man  who 
lost  all  this! "  Charles  V  exclaimed. 

There  was  a  lesser  view  we  grew  attached  to, 
that  from  the  strip  of  garden  called  the  Adarves, 
warm  in  the  sun  under  the  vine-covered  bastions. 
It  was  laid  out  by  the  Emperor,  and  it  fronts  the 
snow  range  looming  above  the  green  mass  of 
park  trees.  Almost  every  day  we  would  bring 
books  and  sewing  there  —  December,  with 
mountains  12,000  feet  high  beside  us!  —  and  the 
gardener  would  set  chairs  for  us  at  the  stone 
table.  Work  and  books  would  be  dropped  for 
long  minutes  to  look  out  on  those  astonishingly 
noble  mountains.  If  only  the  city  below  were 
well-ordered  and  clean  like  Avila  or  Segovia  or 


270  Heroic  Spain 

Seville,  this  would  be  the  spot  of  all  Spain  for  a 
long  stay. 

We  had  to  descend  at  times  to  the  repulsive 
town  for  sightseeing.  We  hunted  up  the  Church 
of  San  Geronimo,  where  the  Gran  Capitan,  that 
true  Castilian  knight  alike  renowned  as  general 
and  diplomatist,  Gonsalvo  de  Cordova,  was 
buried.  Once  around  his  tomb  seven  hundred 
captured  banners  were  ranged,  but  the  church 
since  it  was  sacked  in  the  French  invasion  has 
been  unused.  It  was  appropriate  that  the  Great 
Captain  found  burial  in  Granada,  since  it  was 
here  he  trained  the  famous  legions  he  was  to  lead 
to  victory  in  Italy.  Isabella  on  her  deathbed 
listened  with  thrilled  interest  to  the  news  of 
Gonsalvo's  exploits  at  Naples.  Another  day,  to 
see  the  view  of  the  Sierras  from  the  Church  of 
San  Nicolas,  we  climbed  the  Albaicfn  quarter,  so 
squalid  and  poverty-stricken  that  the  very  sheets 
hung  out  to  dry  were  a  fretwork  of  patches,  and 
the  smells  of  goats  and  pigs  were  awful.  A 
swarm  of  deformed  beggars  gathered  round  us, 
and  I  must  confess  to  driving  them  off  indig- 
nantly. Then  as  we  descended  the  hill,  down  the 
twisting  oriental  passages,  I  was  reproached  by 
a  little  episode  that  showed  a  charity  wider  than 
mine  —  not  good  utilitarian  ethics  perhaps,  but 
good  early  Christianity  —  a  woman,  poorest  of 
the  poor,  at  a  turning  of  the  lane  was  giving  her 


Cordova  and  Granada       271 

mite  to  one  more  stricken  in  misery.  Is  it  any 
wonder  Spain  can  win  affection  with  her  good 
and  her  evil  lying  close  beside  each  other  in 
a  grand  primitive  way?  Whenever  I  joined  her 
detractors  and  abused  her,  within  the  hour  she 
would  offer  some  silent  rebuke. 

Still  another  walk  was  the  beautiful  one  along 
the  Darro,  then  up  the  steep  hill  between  the 
Generalife  and  the  Alhambra.  In  that  deserted 
lane  one  morning  as  I  was  passing  alone,  sud- 
denly the  gypsy  king  stepped  out,  a  startling 
image  of  brutal,  manly  beauty,  with  his  blue- 
black  hair  topped  by  a  peaked  hat.  He  ap- 
proached insolently,  with  a  glance  of  contempt- 
uous, piercing  boldness,  struck  an  attitude,  and 
holding  out  a  package,  commanded :  "  Buy  my, 
photograph."  With  beating  heart  I  hurried  by, 
to  turn  into  the  safe  Alhambra  enclosure  with  a 
tremor  of  relief. 

The  Cathedral  of  Granada  is  a  pretentious 
Greco-Roman  building,  good  of  its  kind,  but  I 
do  not  like  that  kind.  Out  of  it  leads  the  Royal 
Chapel,  where  fflos  muy  altos,  catolicos,  y  muy 
poderosos  Senores  Don  Ferdinando  y  Dona 
Isabel"  lie  buried  with  their  unfortunate 
daughter,  Juana  la  Loca,  and  her  Hapsburg 
husband.  These  two  elaborate  Renaissance 
tombs,  the  wood  carved  retablo  and  a  notably 
fine  reja,  make  this  Camilla  Real  a  unique  sgot. 


272  Heroic  Spain 

Isabella  the  queen  left  a  last  testament  that 
breathes  the  fine  sincerity  of  her  whole  life :  "I 
order  that  my  body  be  interred  in  the  Alhambra 
of  Granada  in  a  tomb  which  will  lie  on  the  ground 
and  can  be  brushed  with  feet,  that  my  name  be  cut 
on  a  single  simple  stone.  But  if  the  king,  my 
lord,  choose  a  sepulchre  in  any  other  part  of  our 
kingdom,  I  wish  my  body  to  be  exhumed  and 
buried  by  his  side,  so  that  the  union  of  our  bodies 
in  the  tomb,  may  signify  the  union  of  our  hearts 
in  life,  as  I  hope  that  God  in  his  infinite  mercy 
may  permit  that  our  souls  be  united  in  heaven." 
It  seems  as  if  a  king  whose  life-long  mate  had 
been  an  Isabella  of  Castile  might  have  had  more 
dignity  of  soul  than  to  give  her  a  trivial  successor. 
When  Ximenez  heard  of  her  death,  sternly- 
repressed  man  of  intellect  though  he  was,  he  burst 
into  lamentation.  "  Never,"  he  exclaimed,  "  will 
the  world  again  behold  a  queen,  with  such  great- 
ness of  soul,  such  purity  of  heart,  with  such  ardent 
piety  and  such  zeal  for  justice!  "  And  the  Car- 
dinal had  known  her  in  the  undisguised  intimacy 
of  the  Confessional  and  stood  side  by  side  with 
her  through  years  of  difficult  state  guidance.  The 
astute  Italian  scholar,  Peter  Martyr,  who  lived  at 
her  court,  said  that  at  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury Isabella  had  made  Spain  the  most  orderly 
country  in  Europe,  and  another  foreign  scholar, 
Erasmus,  tells  us  that  under  her,  letters  and 


Cordova  and  Granada       273 

liberal  studies  had  reached  so  high  a  state  that 
Spain  served  as  a  model  to  the  cultivated  na- 
tions. 

From  one  end  of  her  land  to  the  other  this  in- 
comparable woman  has  left  her  mark;  at  Val- 
ladolid  the  remembrance  of  her  marriage; 
Segovia  whence  she  started  out  to  claim  her 
kingdom;  at  Burgos  the  tomb  of  her  parents; 
Salamanca  where  her  son  was  educated,  and 
whose  library  facade  is  in  her  grandiose  style; 
Avila  where  this  only  son  lies  buried;  Santi- 
ago where  her  hospice  still  harbors  the  needy; 
Seville  where  she  gave  audience  in  the  Alcazar; 
her  refuge  for  the  insane  here  in  Granada;  — 
hardly  a  city  that  she  did  not  visit  and  endow: 

"  If  thy  rare  qualities,  sweet  gentleness, 
Thy  meekness  saint-like,  wife-like  government 
Obeying  in  commanding,  and  thy  parts 
Sovereign  and  pious,  else  could  speak  thee  out 
The  Queen  of  earthly  queens." 


.VIGNETTES    OF    SEVILLE 

"  Mi  vida  esta  pendiente 
Solo  en  un  hilo, 
Y  el  hilo  esta  en  tu  mano, 
dueno  querido. 

Mira  y  repara, 
Que  si  el  hilo  se  rompe 
Mi  vida  acaba." 

CANTAR  AUDALUZ. 

"  El  secreto  de  la  vida  consiste  en  nacer  todas  las 
mananas." —  RAMON  CAMPOAMOR. 

THE  outburst  of  spring  in  Seville  is  something 
unforgettable.  With  roses  in  bloom  during 
December  and  January,  the  winter  was  like  the 
summer  of  some  places,  and  so  we  realized  with 
surprise  during  February  that  a  genuine  spring 
was  beginning.  The  bushes  and  hedges  put  on 
fresh  coats  of  green,  and  barely  a  month  after 
the  trees  had  been  stripped  of  their  myriad 
oranges,  the  same  trees  were  covered  with  white 
blossoms.  To  sit  beside  the  lake  in  the  park  on 
a  sunny  March  morning  seemed  like  being  in  an 
ideal  scene  of  the  theater;  hard,  white  pathways 
wound  in  every  direction  between  miles  of  rose 
hedges ;  an  avenue  of  vivid  Judas  trees  led  to  a 


Vignettes  of  Seville  275 

blue  and  white  tiled  Laiterie,  where  society  came 
each  morning  to  drink  a  hygienic  glass  of  milk, 
and  the  graceful  girls  played  diavolo  with  young 
officers ;  the  groves  of  orange  trees  filled  the  air 
with  an  almost  overpowering  scent;  children 
threw  crumbs  to  the  ducks  in  the  pond;  high  up 
in  the  palm  trees  they  were  doing  the  parks' 
spring  cleaning  by  cutting  away  the  spent  leaves. 
With  such  a  winter  climate  it  is  strange  that 
Seville  was  deserted  by  foreigners  till  the  Easter 
rush.  During  the  four  months  of  our  stay  we  had 
no  need  of  fires,  and  sometimes  there  were  days 
so  warm  that  we  did  not  start  for  the  customary 
constitutional  till  toward  evening.  Every  single 
day  of  the  winter  we  took  a  walk  in  the  same 
direction,  —  to  the  Delicias  parks.  Such  monot- 
ony at  first  seemed  a  very  limited  pleasure,  but 
before  the  winter  ended  we  had  grown  to  be  such 
true  Sevillians  that  we  liked  the  placid  regularity, 
and  whenever  we  went  further  afield  the  roads 
were  so  abominably  kept  that  we  were  glad  to 
return  to  the  shady  fragrance  of  the  park.  We 
gradually  learned  to  sit  on  the  benches  with  the 
contented  indolence  of  the  southerner,  watching 
the  carriages  roll  by,  family  coaches  a  bit  an- 
tiquated, the  women  well-dressed  but  not  with 
the  Madrilena's  elegance.  As  the  same  people 
passed  day  after  day,  we  soon  had  favorites 
among  them.  One  young  girl,  like  a  rose  in  her 


276  Heroic  Spain 

bloom  of  quick  blushes,  was  having  the  golden 
hour  of  her  life;  all  winter  we  watched  her  in 
the  DeliciaSj  at  the  theater,  in  church,  and  she 
never  appeared  without  her  cavalier  somewhere 
in  sight:  a  man  in  love  here,  like  a  man  at  his 
prayers,  has  no  false  pride  to  disguise  his  devo- 
tion. His  carriage  openly  pursued  hers  in  the 
park,  the  coachman  an  eager  abettor  of  the 
romance.  They  would  often  alight,  and  while 
her  mother  and  small  sister  loitered  far  behind, 
the  happy  novios  were  allowed  to  ramble  side  by 
side  through  the  lovely  paths.  It  seemed  to  us 
that  we  were  no  sooner  settled  in  some  retired 
nook  of  the  pleasure  grounds  than  these  two 
sympathetic  young  people  would  come  strolling 
past,  and  her  sudden  blush  in  recognition  of  the 
two  strangers  whose  interest  she  felt,  was  very 
charming  to  see,  —  so  too  thought  the  young  man 
at  her  side,  for  he  always  paced  with  his  head 
bent  irresistibly  to  hers.  Life  can  offer  worse 
fates  than  to  be  in  love  in  the  springtime,  under 
Seville's  flowering  trees. 

This  happy  starting  with  romance  has  much 
to  do  with  the  contented  marriages  of  the  race: 
here,  as  I  said  before,  is  little  of  the  pernicious 
"  dot  "  system  of  France  and  Italy;  good  looks 
and  attractive  personal  qualities  win  a  husband. 
Spanish  women  make  excellent  wives,  their  first 
fire  and  passion  turning  to  self-abnegation. 


Vignettes  of  Seville  277 

They  are  spared  the  ignoble  competition  that 
luxury  brings;  except  in  Madrid  and  among  a 
small  set  in  a  couple  more  of  the  big  cities,  most 
Spanish  ladies  dress  with  extreme  simplicity  in 
black ;  the  mantilla  having  more  or  less  equalized 
conditions.  It  is  still  the  custom  for  a  mother 
and  her  daughters  to  go  to  church  before  eight 
every  morning;  often  I  saw  them  returning  as 
I  sat  drinking  my  coffee  on  the  hotel  balcony. 
For  church  they  wear  the  black  veil  that  so  much 
better  becomes  them  than  the  big  hats  donned 
for  the  afternoon  drive.  Strangers  are  inclined 
to  take  for  granted  the  idleness  of  women's  lives 
in  a  city  like  Seville.  I  had  slight  opportunity 
of  judging  for  myself.  From  a  friend,  however, 
who  happened  to  have  letters  of  introduction  to  a 
Sevillian  whom  she  thought  a  mere  social  butter- 
fly after  seeing  her  drive  by  idly  every  after- 
noon, I  learned  that  being  taken  into  the  intimacy 
of  this  pretty,  fashionable  woman,  it  appeared 
that  she  rose  before  seven  every  day  and  had 
never  once  missed  giving  each  of  her  four 
children  his  morning  bath. 

When  we  occasionally  lingered  late  in  the 
Delicias  at  noon,  we  would  see  the  cigarreras 
from  the  great  tobacco  factory  come  out  to  spend 
their  siesta.  The  proverbial  beauty  of  these  girls 
is  much  exaggerated,  but  the  fresh  flower  in  the 
hair  worn  by  every  woman  of  the  people,  old 


278  Heroic  Spain 

and  young  alike,  gives  a  decided  charm.  Some- 
times they  would  dance  together  under  the  trees, 
just  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  motion,  and  sing 
the  passionate  coplas  of  the  province,  of  the  very 
essence  of  a  people,  impossible  to  translate : 

"  Nor  with  you  nor  without  you 
My  sorrows  have  end, 
For  with  you,  you  kill  me, 
And  without  you,  I  die." 

Or  this  other,  a  ma  jo  to  his  chosen  one: 

"  Take,  little  one,  this  orange 
From  my  orchard  grove  apart, 
Be  careful  lest  you  use  a  knife 
For  inside  is  my  heart." 

The  ma  jo  of  Andalusia  is  the  peasant  dandy 
of  Spain,  and  truly  he  is  superb.  As  he  gallops 
in  from  the  country  on  his  proud-necked  stocky 
Andalusian  horse  —  by  instinct  he  knows  how 
to  sit  a  horse  —  or  when  he  walks  by  jauntily  in 
his  short  bolero  jacket,  with  the  springing  gait  of 
youth  and  dominating  manhood,  a  duchess  must 
look  at  him  with  admiration.  The  city  loafer  of 
Seville  is  a  miserable  specimen,  and  his  insolence 
on  the  street  is  a  constant  outrage,  but  the 
country  labrador  does  much  to  redeem  him.  One 
day  we  walked  back  across  the  fields  from  Ital- 
ica,  and  passed  many  of  these  self-respecting 
peasants  who  gave  us  the  proud,  courteous  salute 


Vignettes  of  Seville  279 

of  the  north,  but  no  sooner  were  we  within  the 
city  limits  than  began  the  bold  staring,  the  jost- 
ling and  remarks  peculiar  to  Seville  alone. 

All  classes  and  conditions  are  met  with  in  the 
park.  Once  a  week  the  black  soutanes  and  red 
shoulder  scarfs  of  the  seminarists  of  San  Telmo 
give  an  added  note  of  color.  One  of  the  lads, 
happening  to  know  a  Spanish  acquaintance  of 
ours,  often  stopped  to  chat.  He  told  us  details 
of  their  life,  that  at  Easter  and  for  the  summer 
each  returned  in  secular  dress  to  his  family,  and 
if,  during  his  years  of  preparation,  he  found  he 
was  not  suited  to  the  priesthood,  he  was  free  to 
leave  at  any  time.  Thus  this  lad  had  entered 
with  ten  others,  of  whom  only  three  remained. 
"  Soon  only  two,  I  fear,"  he  added,  with  his  clever 
mundain  smile.  "  They  tell  me  I  'm  too  fond  of 
society."  Yet  I  have  seen  English  ladies,  true  to 
their  Invincible  Armada  traditions,  shake  their 
heads  in  pity  when  the  seminarists  passed,  and 
sigh:  "  Poor  young  prisoners!  " 

We  made  other  acquaintances  in  the  placid 
Seville  parks;  the  venders  of  peanut  candy,  of 
the  delicious  sugar  wafers  for  which  you  gamble 
on  a  revolving  machine,  above  all  our  Agua! 
lAgua!  friend.  This  last  would  polish  the  glass 
with  an  agile  turn  of  the  wrist,  then  bend  slightly 
and  from  his  shoulder  pour  down  the  crystal 
stream  with  undeviating  aim.  No  people  on 


280  Heroic  Spain 

earth  drink  water  like  the  Spanish;  if  is  a 
national  love.  A  tot  of  four  will  stand  spell- 
bound before  the  fat  dolphin  of  a  park  fountain, 
calling  in  beatific  ecstasy,  "  Hay  agua! " 

Though  the  Delicias  is  the  favorite  haunt, 
one  can  while  away  an  afternoon  in  the  garden  of 
the  Alcazar,  on  its  pretty  tiled  seats.  When  we 
went  through  the  Moorish  palace,  its  restorations 
seemed  so  gaudily  done  that  again  I  felt  the  sen- 
sation that  this  was  trumpery.  As  at  the  Al- 
hambra  the  fact  of  its  medium  being  plaster,  not 
enduring  stone,  spoils  Moorish  art  for  me. 
Some  evenings  for  the  sunset  we  climbed  the 
Giralda,  the  only  height  from  which  a  view  over 
the  fertile  country  can  be  got,  for  Seville's 
great  drawback  is  its  flatness;  there  is  not  one 
high  spot  for  loitering  at  the  close  of  day  as  in 
most  Italian  towns.  From  this  cathedral  tower, 
the  view  down  on  the  white  roofs  of  the  city 
holds  one  spellbound;  groves  of  palms  show  the 
parks,  neat  terrace  gardens  on  the  tops  of  the 
houses,  and  not  a  vestige  of  a  street.  No  wonder, 
for  the  passages  called  streets  are  barely  wide 
enough  for  three  to  walk  abreast,  and  they  twist 
and  bend  in  true  oriental  fashion.  We  used  to 
turn  in  behind  the  Alcazar,  and  wander  hap- 
hazard, past  Murillo's  house,  round  and  about 
north  of  that  chief  thoroughfare,  the  Sierpes. 
For  surprises  and  romance  this  town  has  no 


Vignettes  of  Seville  281 

equal.  Tucked  away  in  the  narrow  lanes  is 
patio  after  patio,  not,  like  those  of  Cordova, 
merely  spotless  and  tranquil,  but  imposing  with 
white  marble  columns  and  pavements,  for  Italica, 
nearby,  an  obliterated  city  that  lays  claim  to 
three  of  Rome's  emperors,  Trajan,  Hadrian, 
and  Theodosius,  was  stripped  to  adorn  the 
younger  Seville.  The  exterior  of  the  houses  is  in- 
significant, just  two  or  three  stories  of  plain  plas- 
ter walls,  all  beauty  being  kept  for  the  inside,  for 
the  patio,  with  its  central  fountain  and  walls  of 
colored  tiles.  We  used  often  to  pause  at  the 
open  grille  to  gaze  in  with  delight,  agreeing 
with  the  old  German  proverb,  "  Whom  God 
loves  has  a  house  in  Seville."  They  say  that  in 
summer-time  the  family  moves  down  from  the 
upper  story  to  live  around  the  patio,  over  which 
an  awning  is  stretched,  and  every  evening  ani- 
mated tertulias  are  held  there.  A  June  walk 
at  night  in  these  lanes  must  be  paradise:  "  Quien 
no  ha  visto  a  Sevilla,  no  ha  visto  a  maravilla" 

All  over  the  city  are  small  churches  that  ante- 
date the  Cathedral,  with  noticeable  twelfth  cen- 
tury portals,  timber  roofs,  and  often  a  Moor- 
ish tower.  The  best  are  Omnium  Sanctorum 
and  San  Marcos :  and  a  lovely  bit  to  sketch  is  the 
fa9ade  of  Santa  Paula  with  its  Italian  faience 
decoration.  The  peaceful  patio  of  the  chief 
Hospital  —  a  church  in  the  center  —  must  be  a 


282  Heroic  Spain 

nook  of  repose  loved  by  the  convalescent.  I  could 
not  see  that  the  ill  or  aged  suffered  in  Spain, 
despite  the  general  abuse  of  her  institutions. 
What  is  it  about  Spanish  ways  that  makes  most 
Englishmen  so  pessimistic  over  her?  It  seems 
to  me  that  an  Englishman  should  be  sympa- 
thetic here,  for  so  many  of  his  traits  he  has  in 
common  with  the  Spaniard,  such  as  sincerity, 
independence,  loyalty  to  national  ideals,  to  their 
rulers  and  creed.  A  prominent  London  pub- 
lisher, in  a  new  series  of  travel  books,  has  lately 
reprinted  Richard  Ford's  "  Wanderings  in 
Spain,"  thereby  perpetrating  a  grave  injustice, 
for  in  this  book  is  gathered,  with  no  sense  of  pro- 
portion, the  abuse  expurgated  (chiefly  because  of 
its  length)  from  his  "  Murray's  Hand-book  of 
Spain."  Ford  visited  Spain  when  she  was  torn 
by  the  disorders  of  civil  war,  after  three  centuries 
of  ill-government.  A  sad  picture  of  England 
could  be  made  by  the  foreign  visitors  who  hap- 
pened to  witness  the  Lord  George  Gordon  riots 
or  the  industrial  agitations  of  the  Midlands,  or 
who  visited  the  poorhouses,  schools,  and  prisons 
described  by  Dickens  and  Charles  Reade,  yet  who 
would  maintain  that  such  a  picture  was  true  as 
a  whole,  or  print  such  a  book  to  represent  Eng- 
land to-day?  Why  must  a  different  justice  be 
meted  out  to  Spain?  Ford  could  be  enthusiastic 
over  the  Castilian  peasants'  manhood,  over  the 


Vignettes  of  Seville  283 

security  of  life  and  purse  throughout  the  northern 
provinces,  and  the  gentle  kindness  of  the  country 
women,  the  hospitality  of  whose  kitchens  he 
sought,  but  when  it  comes  to  the  national  religion 
he  fills  his  pages  with  false  statements.  "  One 
never  pelts  a  tree  unless  it  has  fruit  on  it,"  a 
Spaniard  will  say  as  he  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  travelers  in  Spain 
then  as  well  as  the  travelers  of  to-day  see  many 
things  that  have  cause  to  distress  them,  but 
it  should  never  be  forgotten  that  in  cities  like 
Seville,  the  disease  and  vice  which  are  kept  out  of 
sight  in  a  distant  slum  in  northern  towns,  are  here 
right  in  the  open  eye.  The  poorest  here  live  in 
the  same  block  with  the  rich,  a  juxtaposition  that 
may  lead  the  outsider  to  see  only  the  evil  of  a 
place,  but  for  the  native  has  the  happier  result 
of  a  more  human  primitive  relationship  between 
the  classes  than  in  most  countries:  poverty  has 
never  been  looked  on  as  pitiable  in  Spain :  haughti- 
ness and  snobbishness  are  almost  unknown  here.1 

I  must  also  add,  to  be  quite  honest,  that,  often, 
the  impudence  of  the  Sevillian  street  loafer  and 
the  exasperating  pursuance  of  the  beggar  chil- 
dren, made  me  break  out  in  Invincible  Ar- 
mada abuse  myself;  then  some  slight  episode 
would  occur  to  reprove  me.  One  day  we  paused 

1  "Spain  is  one  of  the  few  countries  in  Europe  where  poverty  is  not 
treated  with  contempt,  and  I  may  add,  where  the  wealthy  are  not  blindly 
idolized."  —  George  Borrow:  "The  Bible  in  Spain." 


284  Heroic  Spain 

to  watch  a  very  ugly  little  girl  of  five  nurse  her 
wounded  dog.  She  was  pity  incarnate,  she  had 
rolled  it  in  her  poor  shawl  and  rocked  it  backward 
and  forward.  When  she  gently  touched  the 
bandaged  paw  tears  came  to  her  eyes.  We  often 
passed  her  during  the  winter,  and  feeling  our 
sympathy,  unconscious  of  its  first  cause,  the  little 
tot  would  wait  shyly  till  we  had  gone  by,  then 
dash  after  us  to  thrust  into  our  hands  two 
tiny  bunches  of  orange  blossoms  or  violets,  and 
then  tear  away  in  confusion,  refusing  to  be 
thanked.  That  she  so  ugly  and  poor  had  won  two 
friends  intoxicated  her  warm  little  heart,  and  she 
regularly  prepared  her  offerings  of  answering 
affection,  to  have  ready  when  the  strangers 
passed:  every  characteristic  of  this  untrained 
child  of  the  street  was  admirable.  Another  time 
a  stationer  sent  his  young  apprentice  of  fourteen 
to  show  us  the  way  to  a  book-binder's.  We 
offered  the  boy  the  usual  fee,  when  he  flung  back 
his  head  proudly  with  a  flush;  his  name  was 
Emilio  Teruel  y  Nobile,  and  the  high-minded 
young  descendant  of  Aragonese  or  Castilian 
blood  bore  it  worthily.  Having  shown  us  the 
shop  we  sought,  and  realizing  that  we  now  rec- 
ognized him  as  an  equal,  he  made  his  farewell 
with  a  poise  and  reserved  grace  that  were 
splendid.  Later  we  occasionally  passed  Emilio, 
and  the  equality  of  the  greetings  exchanged,  not 


Vignettes  of  Seville  285 

the  slightest  presumption  on  his  part,  is  a  thing 
only  to  be  found  in  caballero  Spain. 

To  follow  the  church  feasts  that  so  diversify 
and  brighten  the  year  for  these  southern  coun- 
tries, also  helps  one  to  see  them  more  justly. 
On  the  19th  of  March,  St.  Joseph's  Day,  a  large 
crowd  filled  the  Cathedral  to  listen  to  a  sermon, 
almost  the  best  I  have  ever  heard,  wherein  the 
sanctity  of  the  family  and  the  dignity  of  labor 
were  held  up  as  needed  models  in  the  world  to- 
day. Before  the  lighted  altar  of  St.  Joseph  I 
noticed  a  magnificent  looking  hidalgo,  muy  hi  jo 
de  algo  y  de  limpia  sangre,  with  three  equally 
grandly  built  young  sons  beside  him.  Such  men 
had  never  been  raised  amid  city  temptations. 
The  line  of  the  four  profiles  was  so  similar  it  was 
striking.  When  they  rose  from  prayer,  the  self- 
forgetful  prayer  of  the  Spaniard  with  bowed 
head  and  closed  eyes,  the  lads  pressed  about  the 
father  they  revered,  they  laid  their  hands  lovingly 
on  his  shoulder,  the  youngest  stroked  his  back  as 
he  talked  to  him ;  two  of  the  group  were  probably 
named  Jose,  and  the  father  had  come  in  from  a 
country  town  to  pass  his  saint's  day  with  his  boys 
at  the  University.  All  over  the  city,  cakes  and 
presents  were  carried  openly,  for  everyone 
named  Joseph  (and  the  Pepes  are  legion)  was 
keeping  open  house,  and  his  friends  were  pour- 
ing in  to  offer  congratulations. 


286  Heroic  Spain 

In  Spain  moving  scenes  are  witnessed  when 
the  Viaticum  is  brought  to  the  dying:  the  in- 
mates of  the  house  go  to  the  church  to  escort  the 
priest  back  in  procession,  the  sacristan  gives  each 
a  lighted  candle,  then  at  the  door  on  their  return, 
the  servants  kneel  to  receive  "  el  Senor,  su 
Majestad"  Sir  William  Stirling-Maxwell  has 
told  of  a  duchess  in  Madrid,  returning  from  a  ball 
past  midnight,  that  when  a  priest  passed  carry- 
ing the  sacrament  to  the  dying,  she  resigned  her 
•carriage  to  him  and  returned  home  on  foot.  It 
is  said  that  if  in  a  theater  the  tinkle  of  a  passing 
bell  is  heard,  actors  and  audience  fall  on  their 
•knees. 

In  Seville,  in  spite  of  there  being  none  of  the 
mild  festivities  the  foreigner  finds  in  Rome  or 
Florence  —  not  a  single  tea  party !  —  we  never 
had  time  to  be  bored.  No  sooner  were  the 
celebrations  for  December  8th  over  than  the 
Chrismas  fiestas  began.  Flocks  of  turkeys  were 
driven  through  the  streets  and  sold  from  door  to 
door,  and  it  was  comical  to  see  one  of  the  awk- 
ward creatures  step  stiffly  into  the  corridor  lead- 
ing to  a  patio,  gravely  crane  his  neck  about  to  ob- 
serve the  romantic  white-marble  propriety  within 
the  gate,  and  his  stupefaction  when  the  iron 
reja  opened  to  him  with  too  warm  a  welcome, 
alas !  In  the  shop  windows  were  exposed  all  sorts 
of  useful  gifts,  silver-necked  flagons  full  of  yel- 


Vignettes  of  Seville  287 

low  oil,  and  ornate  boxes  of  cakes.  The  Mid- 
night Mass  on  Christmas  Eve  was  very  solemn 
under  the  lofty  piers  of  the  Cathedral.  The 
people  gathered  there  seemed  to  be  med- 
itating on  the  mystery  they  commemorated, 
and  at  the  words  of  the  Gospel,  "  Et  Ver- 
bum  caro  factum  est,"  all  fell  spontaneously 
to  their  knees. 

Not  long  after  the  New  Year,  the  King  and 
Queen,  to  escape  the  icy  winds  of  Madrid,  came 
to  pass  a  month  in  the  sun-warmed  Alcazar.  It 
was  Dona  Victoria's  first  visit  to  Seville,  so  the 
city  made  it  an  occasion;  triumphal  arches  were 
put  up  across  the  streets,  the  fences  of  the  parks 
were  painted  crimson  and  gold,  there  was  a  great 
clipping  of  trees  and  repairing  of  roads,  —  a  bit 
late  this  last  (but  truly  Andalusian)  for  the  royal 
carriages  had  to  grind  down  the  scattered  stones, 
—  also,  the  private  houses  put  on  new  coats  of 
whitewash.  Platforms  for  seats  were  built 
along  the  route  from  the  station  to  the  Alcazar. 
We  hired  chairs  on  the  steps  of  the  Lonja  oppo- 
site the  Cathedral,  as  it  did  not  seem  likely  that 
the  old  custom  of  going  direct  to  the  church  to 
sing  a  Te  Deum  of  thanksgiving  would  be  set 
aside.  We  were  in  place  early  and  watched  the 
animated  crowds  passing,  —  there  was  no  push- 
ing or  crowding.  Deputaries  in  gold  lace  and 
medals  dashed  by;  the  balconies  on  all  sides,  hung 


288  Heroic  Spain 

with  the  national  colors,  were  filled  with  pretty 
women.  The  clamor  of  the  Giralda  bells  told 
the  waiting  people  the  train  had  arrived;  then, 
as  the  royal  carriage  passed,  Dona  Victoria  was 
given  an  enthusiastic  reception:  her  bright 
golden  hair  and  brilliant  complexion  won  cries 
of  "  Eonita!  "  "  Simpdtica!  "  "  Guapa!  "  Be- 
fore the  cigar  factory,  where  its  five  thousand 
employees  were  grouped,  a  band  of  the  hand- 
somest cigarreras,  in  red  and  yellow  silk  shawls, 
stepped  forward  to  present  the  Queen  with  a  fan 
made  of  flowers,  on  whose  floating  ribbon  was 
painted  a  genuine  Andalusian  welcome: 

"  Tienes  el  mismo  nombre  "  Thou  hast  the  same  name 

Que  la  Patrona,1  As  our  patroness,1 

Tienes  '  ange '  en  la  cara,  Thou  hast  the  face  of  an  angel, 

Tienes  corona,  Thou  art  a  queen, 

Dios  te  bendiga!  May  God  bless  thee, 

Eres  la  mas  hermosa  The  fairest  that  has  come 

Que  entro  en  Sevilla."  to  Seville!  " 

The  loud  exclamations  of  delight  in  the  robust 
health  of  the  little  Prince  of  Asturias  pleased 
the  Queen,  and  as  she  passed  through  the  cheer- 
ing mass  of  people,  she  made  very  gracefully 
the  foreign  gesture  of  greeting,  the  fingers  bent 
back  rapidly  on  the  palm.  As  the  night  journey 
had  tired  her,  the  doctors  ordered  her  immediate 
entrance  into  the  Alcazar,  postponing  the  Te 
Deum  till  the  afternoon;  and  Seville,  who  clings 

i  Our  Lady  of  Victory  is  the  patroness  of  the  cigarreras. 


Vignettes  of  Seville  289 

tenaciouly  to  old  customs,  was  distinctly  dis- 
pleased. 

The  group  that  stood  on  the  Cathedral  steps 
later  in  the  day  was  superb.  There  was  the 
Archbishop  in  cope  and  miter,  with  his  silver 
crozier,  the  canons  in  purple  robes,  the  acolytes 
bearing  the  historic  crosses  carried  on  festivals, 
and  all  the  chief  citizens  of  the  town.  For  just 
this  occasion  the  huge  western  doors  were 
thrown  open,  giving  a  new  aspect  to  the  nave; 
through  this  door  the  King  is  the  only  one  privi- 
leged to  pass,  but  on  this  her  first  entrance,  the 
Queen  too.  The  Archbishop  on  first  coming  to 
his  church  and  when  carried  out  to  his  burial 
passes  under  this  portal.  The  King  and  Queen, 
led  by  the  Archbishop,  now  walked  up  the  nave, 
chanting  Te  Deum  laudamus,  and  before  leav- 
ing they  went  to  kneel  in  the  Royal  Chapel  where, 
before  the  High  Altar,  lies  King  Ferdinand  the 
Saint  who  conquered  Seville  in  1248,  after  five 
hundred  years  of  Moorish  rule.  Here  on 
November  23d,  anniversary  of  his  entrance  to  the 
city,  a  Military  Mass  is  said,  and  the  colors  are 
lowered  as  the  garrison  files  past.  To  a  Sevillian 
that  day  of  1248  is  as  alive  as  the  Battle  of  Lex- 
ington to  a  New  Englander. 

This  being  a  first  visit,  some  brisk  sightseeing 
was  done.  They  automobiled  out  to  Italica  to 
see  the  Roman  amphitheater  there;  and  the  day 


290  Heroic  Spain 

after  her  arrival  Dona  Victoria  redeemed  the 
good-will  of  the  Sevillians  by  driving,  in  black 
mantilla,  to  visit  a  church  in  a  poor  part  of  the 
city  where  is  an  altar  to  Our  Lady  of  Hope,  dear 
to  expectant  mothers.  In  the  Lonja,  where  the 
Indian  archives  are  kept,  Don  Alfonso  pored 
over  the  maps  of  Mexico  and  the  autographs 
of  Cortes  and  Pizarro;  in  the  Museo,  the  Queen 
again  touched  the  sentiment  of  the  Spanish 
women  by  preferring  Murillo's  realistic  "Adora- 
tion of  the  Shepherds."  The  Duke  of  Medina- 
celi  got  up  some  splendid  provincial  dances  and 
tableaux  in  his  Mudejar  Casa  de  Pilatos,  one  of 
the  show  places  of  the  town.  We  happened  to 
meet  the  pretty  peasant  girls  who  had  taken  part 
returning  home,  singing  and  waving  to  the  crowd, 
like  birds  of  paradise,  in  their  rose  and  lemon  silk 
shawls.  There  seemed  to  be  a  congenial  com- 
panionship between  the  young  royal  people. 
They  were  at  ease  together.  The  King,  ex- 
tremely fragile-looking,  has  a  thin  Hapsburg  face 
so  eminently  sympathetic  that  sometimes  when  he 
would  give  an  affectionate  grin  at  his  applaud- 
ing subjects  he  made  one  rather  wish  to  be  a 
Spaniard  one's  self.  With  the  irresistible  im- 
pulses of  youth  he  would  sally  out  from  the 
Alcazar  to  explore  the  city  on  foot,  like  any  other 
happy,  free  mortal,  but  sooner  or  later  the  cry 
ff  El  Rey! "  would  gather  a  crowd  and  force  him 


Vignettes  of  Seville  291 

back  to  his  state.  One  day  he  had  to  jump  into 
a  fiacre  to  escape  the  crush,  and  it  was  very 
jolly  to  see  the  descendant  of  the  severe  Philip 
II,  of  the  inflated,  pompous  Bourbons,  dashing 
through  Seville,  laughing  at  the  good  sport.  We 
often  met  him  riding  back  from  Toblada  in  the 
late  afternoon  from  polo,  and  it  certainly  ap- 
peared as  if  the  affection  of  his  countrymen  went 
with  him.  I  should  say  few  kings  are  loved  as  is 
young  Alfonso  XIII,  and  -  Seville  especially 
prides  herself  on  being  muy  leal.  Did  not 
Alfonso  el  Sabio  (tenth  of  the  name,  as  this 
Alfonso  is  the  thirteenth)  give  the  city  the 
famous  nodo,  seen  everywhere  as  the  town  crest, 
for  just  this  trait  of  loyalty  six  centuries  ago ?  So 
several  times  a  day  an  eager  crowd  gathered  to 
watch  the  King  pass,  or  to  cheer  for  the  rosy 
little  Prince  of  Asturias  who  drove  out  with 
his  titled  governess  and  two  nurses,  —  one  of 
severe  English  propriety,  the  other  a  romantic 
Spanish  peasant  —  behind  four  big  mules  decked 
with  Andalusian  red  trappings  and  bells.  A 
whole  series  of  fetes  were  preparing  when  the 
tragic  assassination  of  the  King  of  Portugal  and 
his  eldest  son  at  Lisbon  put  a  stop  to  the  rejoic- 
ing. The  sensation  in  Seville  was  enormous,  as 
the  Portuguese  Queen  had  brought  her  two  sons 
the  year  before  to  follow  the  services  of  Holy 
Week  here,  and  her  mother,  the  Countess  of 


292  Heroic  Spain 

Paris,  lives  in  an  estate  near  the  city.  Don 
Alfonso  had  just  gone  for  a  week's  big-game 
hunting  to  the  Granada  mountains,  when  he 
hurried  back  to  take  part  in  the  funeral  service 
held  in  Madrid  at  the  same  hour  as  that  in  Lis- 
bon. On  his  return  to  Seville  his  changed  ap- 
pearance showed  what  a  shock  the  tragedy  had 
been;  not  relationship  alone  but  friendship 
united  him  to  Portugal. 

Before  the  Royal  visit  ended  there  was  a  grand 
review  of  the  troops  in  the  park,  where  Don 
Alfonso  wore  a  new  uniform,  that  of  the  Hus- 
sars of  Pavia,  in  commemoration  of  the  great 
victory  of  Charles  V  in  Italy  four  centuries  be- 
fore. Audience  was  given  the  envoys  from  the 
new  King  of  Sweden  in  the  Ambassador's  hall 
of  the  Alcazar,  which  it  was  said  had  not  been 
so  used  since  Isabella's  day.  A  mild  form  of 
carnival  was  followed  by  Ash  Wednesday,  when 
the  King  and  Queen  and  court  attended  the  ser- 
vices in  the  Capilla  Real  of  the  Cathedral,  before 
St.  Ferdinand's  silver  tomb.  As  they  passed  out 
between  the  dense  mass  of  people,  my  heart 
sprang  to  my  mouth  when  I  saw  a  man  strug- 
gling to  reach  the  King,  —  fortunately  only  a 
humble  petitioner,  but  the  Lisbon  assassinations 
had  filled  everyone  with  terror.  The  royal  visit 
over,  came  Holy  Week,  but  that  and  the  dancing 
of  the  seises  merit  some  pages  to  themselves. 


A  CHURCH  FEAST  IN   SEVILLE 

"  I  have  loved,  O  Lord,  the  beauty  of  thy  house ;   and 
the  place  where  thy  glory  dwelleth."  —  PSALMS  xxv,  8. 

"  When  after  many  conquerors  came  Christ 
The  only  conqueror  of  Spain  indeed, 
Not  Bethlehem  nor  Golgotha  sufficed 
(To  show  him  forth,  but  every  shrine  must  bleed, 
And  every  shepherd  in  his  watches  heed 
The  angels'  matins  sung  at  heaven's  gate. 
Nor  seemed  the  Virgin  Mary  wholly  freed 
From  taint  of  ill  if  born  in  frail  estate, 
But  shone  the  seraph's  queen  and  soar  'd  immaculate." 

GEORGE  SANTAYANA. 

THE  eighth  of  December  is  a  great  day  in  Spain, 
but  more  especially  in  Seville  where  they  look 
on  the  Immaculate  Conception  as  their  special 
feast,  symbolized,  hundreds  of  years  before  the 
dogma  was  defined,  by  their  fellow  townsman 
Murillo,  in  the  seraphic  purity  of  his  Conception. 
The  celebration  began  on  the  day  preceding  the 
eighth  with  an  early-morning  peal  of  bells  that 
lasted  half  an  hour,  and  was  frequently  repeated 
during  the  day.  Nothing  can  express  the  mad, 
exultant  peal  of  Spanish  bells:  one  strong  me- 
tallic dong  backward  and  forward,  —  or  rather 


294  Heroic  Spain 

over  and  over,  for  the  bells  are  balanced  with 
weights  and  make  the  complete  circle  when  in 
motion,  —  with  a  running  carillon  of  more 
musical  minor  notes.  We  mounted  to  a  roof 
terrace  to  watch  the  ringers  in  the  Giralda,  who 
in  reckless  enjoyment,  let  the  rope  of  the  re- 
volving bell  toss  them  aloft,  a  perilous  feat  that 
has  led  to  fatal  accidents,  but  high  up  in  that 
Moorish  tower,  above  the  palm  and  orange-grow- 
ing city,  a  triumphant  tumult  filling  the  air,  it 
must  be  easy  to  lose  one's  balance  of  common- 
sense. 

Toward  evening  of  the  Vlspera  de  la  Pureza, 
every  one  placed  lights  along  the  balconies,  which 
were  draped  with  blue  and  white,  those  of  the 
Archbishop's  palace,  under  the  Giralda,  being 
hung  in  red  and  yellow,  the  national  colors.  A 
military  band  played  in  one  of  the  smaller  plazas, 
and  the  Seville  girls  flocked  out  in  full  enjoy- 
ment, each  with  the  customary  rose  or  bright 
ribbon  in  her  hair.  The  people  of  the  upper 
classes  entertained  their  friends  in  open  booths 
around  the  square. 

Then  on  the  eighth  itself,  the  bells  fairly  out- 
did themselves  in  tumultuous  clamor,  calling  all 
to  the  Cathedral,  that  haunting  soul  of  the  city, 
La  Grandeza,  the  noble,  the  solemn,  its  special 
title.  Sevillians  love  to  boast  that  it  is  bigger 
than  St.  Peters  in  Rome  and  cite  its  15,642 


A  Church  Feast  in  Seville      295 

square  meters  of  ground  area  to  St.  Peter's 
15,160.  It  is  truly  one  of  the  most  imposing 
churches  in  the  world;  vast  and  dim,  the  lofty 
Gothic  piers  make  double  aisles  as  they  rise  in 
springing  arches  to  the  roof.  I  have  seen  tourists 
enter  laughing  and  chatting,  but  before  they  take 
ten  steps  instinctively  their  voices  are  lowered 
and  they  walk  reverently  with  half -bo  wed  heads. 
This  serious  temple  to  God  is  worthy  of  the  men 
of  big  ideas  who  decided  "  to  construct  a  church 
such  and  so  good  it  never  should  have  its  equal," 
to  accomplish  which  vow  the  canons  sacrificed 
their  personal  revenues,  and  for  a  century  the 
Cathedral  Chapter  ate  in  common.1 

December  eighth  I  was  in  place  early,  in  time 
to  see  each  lady  carry  in  her  own  folding  chair 
and  set  it  up  in  the  matted  space  between  the 
altar  and  choir:  surely  it  is  in  church  that  the 
Spanish  woman  is  at  her  best,  in  her  severe  black 
gown,  with  her  veil  draped  over  a  high  hair  comb 
and  gathered  gracefully  about  the  shoulders  and 
waist.  When  she  kneels  she  makes  a  sign  of  the 
cross,  which  has  national  additions.  After  the 
usual  sign  from  forehead  to  breast,  left  shoulder 
to  right,  she  carries  her  thumb  crossed  over  her 
first  finger  to  her  lips.  I  am  told  this  is  a  token 

1  "O  trois  fois  saints  chanoines!  dormez  doucement  sous  votre  dalle, 
&  1'ombre  de  votre  cathedrale  cherie,  tandis  que  votre  ame  se  prelasse 
au  paradis  dans  une  stalle  probablement  moins  bien  sculptee  que  celle 
de  votre  chceur!" 

THJEOPHILE  GAUTIER:  "  Voyage  en  Espagne." 


296  Heroic  Spain 

of  fidelity  to  the  faith  of  the  cross,  and  is  often  a 
way  by  which  Spaniards  recognize  their  country- 
men in  foreign  countries.  And  since  Seville  out- 
does Spain  in  most  customs,  here  are  still  other 
additions.  They  precede  the  sign  of  the  cross 
by  making  a  small  cross  on  the  forehead,  lips,  and 
breast;  and  there  are  many  who  even  precede 
this  by  a  first  regular  sign  of  the  cross,  thus 
making  two  signs  of  the  cross  with  the  gospel 
symbol  between.  All  this  is  done  so  rapidly  that 
it  takes  several  days  of  close  observation  to 
decipher  it. 

Gradually  the  church  filled  for  the  great  feast, 
until  a  solid  mass  of  people  knelt  or  stood  in  the 
transepts,  covering  every  foot  from  which  the 
High  Altar  could  be  seen ;  there  was  no  crowding 
or  impatience,  for  this  was  not  for  them  a  show, 
but  their  daily  place  of  prayer.  The  onlooking 
tourist  too  often  forgets  this  vital  difference.  In 
most  cases  he  is  ignorant  of  the  meaning  of 
church  ritual;  mental  prayer,  meditation  on  the 
feast  celebrated,  the  unspeakable  spirituality  of 
the  Mass  are  undivined  by  him;  it  is  curiosity  or 
aesthetic  pleasure  that  usually  brings  him  there. 
As  I  thought  later  during  the  Holy  Week,  it 
must  be  a  soul  weariness  to  sit  during  long  hours, 
through  ceremonies  one  cannot  follow  intelli- 
gently. On  this  festival,  first  there  was  a  pro- 
cession round  the  church  to  bless  the  various 


A  Church  Feast  in  Seville      297 

altars  dedicated  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  ("  For 
behold,  from  henceforth  all  generations  shall  call 
me  blessed.  For  He  that  is  mighty  hath  done  to 
me  great  things."  St.  Luke  i,  48-49).  Over  the 
first  altar  visited  hung  Luis  de  Vargas'  celebrated 
picture  of  Adam  and  Eve,  the  Generation, 
painted  in  the  sixteen  century  to  symbolize  to- 
day's doctrine.  Before  the  procession  walked 
officers  in  uniform,  then  groups  of  acolytes,  bear- 
ing antique  silver  crosses  and  the  six-foot  silver 
poles  that  end  in  handsome  candle  shrines.  Se- 
ville gentlemen  in  dress  suits  followed,  and  then 
the  Archbishop  in  cope  and  miter,  with  canons, 
beneficiaries,  and  choristers  in  vestments  rich  in 
gold  and  embroidery.  The  long  imposing  train 
passed  slowly  round  the  outer  aisle.  To  those 
who  remained  before  the  altar,  the  chanting  of 
the  procession  came  but  faintly,  so  colossal  is  the 
church,  though  like  all  well-proportioned  things 
rt  is  only  from  effects  such  as  this  that  one  realizes 
its  size.  The  solemn  High  Mass  proceeded,  now 
the  deep  magnificently  male  voice  of  the  organs, 
now  the  delicate  stringed  instruments,  with  hu- 
man voices,  for  the  Spaniard  fearlessly  follows 
his  impulses  of  worship  and  presses  every  talent 
into  the  service  of  the  altar.  Twenty  laymen 
were  grouped  in  the  coro  about  a  priest  who  led 
with  his  baton,  and  beside  them  stood  the  choris- 
ter lads  who  were  to  dance  that  afternoon  before 


298  Heroic  Spain 

the  tabernacle,  as  David  once  danced  before  the 
Ark  of  the  Covenant.  Their  mediaeval  dress,  a 
singularly  pleasing  Russian  blouse  of  blue  and 
white,  with  white  breeches  and  slippers,  was  worn 
with  so  unconscious  a  grace  that  they  were  a 
charming  sight  as  they  sang  in  clear  childish 
treble. 

The  altar,  one  blaze  of  light,  was  approached 
by  twelve  steps,  up  and  down  which  the  bishop 
and  canons  swept  in  their  gorgeous  robes.  Be- 
low the  steps  stood  twelve  silver  candlesticks 
higher  than  a  man,  and  close  by  were  displayed 
the  priceless  flagons  and  trays  used  on  high 
feasts.  Every  accessory  of  Seville's  Cathedral  is 
on  a  vast  scale;  the  retdblo  of  carved  scenes 
towers  to  a  hundred  feet;  the  gilded  rejas, 
wrought  by  the  monk  of  Salamanca  in  the  same 
disregard  for  man's  limitations  in  which  the 
whole  Cathedral  was  built,  and  whose  dark  fret- 
work enhances  the  brilliant  scenes  they  enclose, 
all  tell  of  an  age  of  ardent  faith  when  men  gave 
of  their  best. 

The  service  over,  the  Archbishop  passed  to  the 
sacristy  which  for  this  day  was  thrown  open  to 
the  people,  and  they  thronged  in  to  kiss  the 
episcopal  ring,  and  to  gaze  at  the  Murillos  and 
other  masters.  Then  his  vestments  laid  aside, 
the  prelate,  accompanied  by  a  dense  crowd, 
crossed  the  square  to  his  palace,  but  before  leav- 


A  Church  Feast  in  Seville      299 

ing  the  church,  he  paused  by  the  chapel  of  Gon- 
salvo  Nunez  de  Sepiilveda,  who  in  1654  left  a 
fortune  to  the  Cathedral  that  this  Octave  of  the 
Immaculate  Conception  should  be  fitly  celebrated. 
Even  after  the  three-hour  service  some  people 
lingered  in  the  side  chapels,  and  the  choristers, 
in  their  picturesque  costume,  gathered  in  the 
capilla  mayor  of  the  partly  deserted  church  to 
continue  their  songs  of  praise:  not  for  outer 
effect  alone  had  these  hymns  been  taught  them, 
but  to  glorify  One  unseen  but  all-seeing.  The 
spirit  of  inner  worship  was  not  lost  in  its  outward 
symbolization. 

During  the  Octave,  the  Blessed  Sacrament 
was  exposed,  and  unceasing  were  the  offices  of 
praise  and  song.  In  the  late  afternoon  of  each 
day  came  the  dance  of  los  seises  before  the  Altar, 
perhaps  one  of  the  most  poetic  customs  remain- 
ing in  Christendom.  The  Archbishop,  in  red 
robes,  again  entered  the  chancel  surrounded  by 
the  canons,  and  they  all  knelt,  some  here,  some 
there,  in  unconsciously  artistic  groups,  —  the 
strong  firm  profiles  like  those  of  the  donors  in 
Italian  pictures.  Some  knelt  in  meditation, 
others  affectionately  watched  the  dance  of  the 
lads ;  they  too,  as  boys,  may  have  been  choristers. 
It  is  more  a  quiet  rhythmic  stepping  to  music 
than  a  dance,  and  all  the  while  they  sing  in  their 
clear,  high  voices.  Twice  the  music  stopped,  and 


300  Heroic  Spain 

for  a  few  seconds  the  lads  moved  slowly  to  the 
sound  of  their  own  castanets.  This  unique  cus- 
tom commemorates  the  Christian's  entry  into  the 
conquered  Moslem  town  more  than  six  hundred 
years  ago,  when  the  children  are  said  to  have 
danced  and  sung  for  joy.  These  twentieth  cen- 
tury Christian  lads,  their  part  now  over,  passed 
up  the  steps  of  the  altar  into  a  small  sacristy  be- 
hind it;  and  the  musicians  continued  a  lovely 
concert  of  sacred  music,  a  last  half  hour  of  peace 
.and  prayer  that  seemed  like  the  benediction  of 
the  great  darkened  church  on  the  bowed  groups 
•of  worshipers. 

I  came  away  from  the  Cathedral  every  evening 
with  the  feeling  that  there  are  many  and  various 
ways  of  praising  God.  Yet  so  much  criticism 
has  this  Seville  custom  roused,  that,  a  few  hun- 
dred years  ago,  the  Pope  ordered  its  discontinu- 
ance, allowing  the  dance  to  go  on  only  as  long  as 
the  costumes  then  in  use  should  last,  but  the 
people,  who  love  their  old  usages,  succeeded  in 
evading  the  decision  by  successive  patching  of  the 
suits.  This  is  the  story.  Certainly  the  graceful 
costumes  to-day  show  no  tatters,  and  they  are 
worn  so  carelessly  that  they  make  no  suggestion 
of  masquerade.  For  the  many  who  crave  a 
quieter  form  of  worship,  the  grave  cathedral 
services  of  Northern  Spain  may  be  more  con- 
genial, but  when  as  many  desire  magnificence 


A  Church  Feast  in  Seville      301 

and  display,  why  should  not  they  too  be  satisfied? 
The  church  allows  for  all  tastes  and  tempera- 
ments, knowing  man  is  not  cast  in  one  mold. 
The  Puritan  in  her  midst  does  not  have  to  turn 
Dissenter;  she  has  her  Salvation  Army  —  so 
I  call  the  pilgrimage-going  crowds;  the  ascetic 
fulfils  the  hard  law  of  his  nature  side  by  side 
with  the  enjoyer  of  human  affections  and  graces. 
Seville's  feast,  rich  with  old  traditions,  is  ap- 
propriate in  this  southern  city.  To  linger  each 
evening  in  the  vast  church  lighted  only  by  soli- 
tary candles  against  each  pier,  to  wander  behind 
the  kneeling  groups  listening  to  the  soaring 
voices  of  man  and  violin,  to  pause  beside  a  certain 
tomb  in  the  south  transept  where  four  mammoth 
figures  of  bronze,  ungainly  on  close  view  but 
in  a  half  light  majestic,  bear  on  their  shoulders 
a  bier  which  holds  the  remains  of  Cristobal 
Colon,  —  such  hours  of  loitering  quicken  the  im- 
agination and  leave  behind  them  memories  of 
beauty. 


HOLY   WEEK   IN    SEVILLE 

"  A  time  to  weep,  and  a  time  to  laugh.  A  time  to 
mourn,  and  a  time  to  dance." 

ECCLES.  iii,  4. 

AN  overcrowded  picture  rises  with  the  thought 
of  Seville's  Semana  Santa,  —  glittering  lights, 
statues  laden  with  jewels,  weird  masked  figures 
in  nazareno  costume  marching  to  the  sound  of 
funeral  dirges,  cries  of  street  vendors  and  chil- 
dren, —  all  is  noise,  movement,  color,  a  true  An- 
dalusian  scene.  Spectacular  effect  is  the  first 
impression  of  the  week,  a  gorgeous  pageantry 
that  suits  the  Sevillian's  temperament  but  is  not 
so  congenial  perhaps  to  the  northerner,  who 
would  have  the  commemoration  of  his  religion's 
solemn  hour  a  more  tranquil  time  of  prayer. 

Happily  there  are  other  memories  carried 
away  as  well  as  this  chief  one  of  noisy  confusion. 
Never  to  be  forgotten  was  the  Cathedral  echoing 
at  midnight  to  the  sound  of  Eslava's  "  Miserere  " 
sung  by  hundreds  of  trained  voices.  Every  inch 
of  the  vast  church  was  packed.  Men  and  women 
stood  in  silence,  with  upraised  faces,  as  they 
listened  to  the  music  of  the  old  canon  who  once 
sat  in  this  choir.  The  lightest  mocker  would  be 


Holy  Week  in  Seville        303 

awed  to  silence  under  those  soaring  arches.  For 
majesty,  for  a  contagious  religious  emotion,  the 
Cathedral  of  Seville  at  the  time  of  its  feasts  is 
only  to  be  rivaled  by  Santa  Sophia  during  Ram- 
azan,  on  that  memorable  Night  of  Power  when 
eight  thousand  Mussulmans  kneel  prostrate 
under  the  floating  circles  of  lamps.  These  two 
stand  supreme ;  so  different  in  the  setting,  —  the 
one  rich  with  color,  an  open  blaze  of  light  beneath 
the  wide  Byzantine  dome,  the  other  dim,  mysteri- 
ous Gothic,  —  they  are  alike  in  the  genuine  thrill 
of  worship  they  give  the  onlooker  of  every  creed. 
Familiar  with  her  Cathedral  in  its  every-day 
aspect,  having  seen  the  celebrations  of  December 
8th,  the  Christmas  Midnight  Mass,  Epiphany, 
Ash  Wednesday,  it  was  cruel  to  find  its  grand 
tranquillity  violated  during  the  Holy  Week.  It 
is  the  processions,  called  the  pasos,  that  are  the 
cause  of  the  disorder.  A  paso  is  a  huge  plat- 
form, on  which  are  placed  carved  statues  repre- 
senting scenes  of  the  Passion.  Each  float  is  car- 
ried by  some  thirty  men,  and  its  weight  must 
be  enormous,  for  besides  the  statues  there  are 
silver  candelabra,  gold  and  silver  vases,  and  us- 
ually a  canopy  of  embroidered  velvet  upheld 
by  silver  poles.  Could  one  but  look  on  them  as 
mere  spectacular  shows,  they  would  be  most  pic- 
turesque pageants,  but  to  dissociate  them  from 
religion  is  impossible.  The  custom  is  an  ancient 


304  Heroic  Spain 

one  and  is  still  prevalent  in  many  towns  of  Spain, 
through  happily,  in  the  smaller  places,  its  origi- 
nal purpose  to  edify  and  rouse  the  people  to  re- 
memberance  of  the  holy  season,  has  not  been  lost 
sight  of  in  extravagant  display  as  at  Seville. 

Each  of  Seville's  numerous  parishes  has  one  or 
two  of  these  pasos,  and  an  unworthy  rivalry  ex- 
ists between  them  as  to  which  will  make  the  best 
show.  They  are  supposed  to  be  scenes  of  the 
Passion,  such  as  the  Flagellation,  Christ  before 
Pilate,  the  Descent  from  the  Cross,  but  for  the 
most  part  they  consist  of  single  figures  —  a 
Crucifixion  followed  by  a  Nuestra  Senora  de  Do- 
lores, another  Crucifixion  followed  by  another 
single  representation  of  Our  Lady,  and  so  on 
in  monotonous  sequence,  a  repetition  that  makes 
the  spectator  fix  his  attention,  not  on  the  scene 
represented  but  on  details  such  as  the  embroidery 
of  the  robes,  the  display  of  rare  jewels,  the  elabo- 
rate canopy.  The  pasos  struck  me  as  the  result 
of  that  regrettable  tendency  in  Spain,  the  accen- 
tuated devotion  to  a  special  shrine  or  statue,  No 
doubt  it  arose  in  reaction  against  the  Moorish 
enemy's  hatred  of  images,  but  the  patriotic 
tendency  has  been  carried  too  far.  It  will  ever 
misrepresent  the  Spaniard's  innate  Christian  be- 
lief. As  these  processions  blocked  the  city 
streets,  one  heard  on  every  side,  not  alone  from 
those  of  differing  creed,  exclamations  of  "  Pomp! 


Holy  Week  in  Seville        305 

Show!  Childishness!"  And  the  criticism  was 
almost  justified.  Many  strangers  leave  Seville 
confirmed  in  the  wrong  idea  that  its  religion  is  an 
affair  of  tinsel  and  lights.  Spain  cares  little  what 
outsiders  think  of  her,  but  here  is  a  case  in  which 
she  should  consider  the  discredit  that  a  degen- 
erated custom  brings  on  her  religion;  she  should 
sacrifice  an  old  tradition.  Like  the  processions 
of  Havana,  the  pasos  should  go.  The  northern 
Spaniard  agrees  with  the  stranger  in  his  dislike 
of  the  noisy  spectacles  that  so  incongruously 
commemorate  the  saddest  death-scene  of  the  ages, 
and  there  are  many  Andalusians,  too,  who  wish 
for  their  abolition.  In  fact,  it  is  the  rabble  and 
the  innkeepers  who  agitate  in  their  favor;  these 
last  keep  petitions  for  their  foreign  guests  to 
sign,  begging  that  the  processions  be  continued. 
Seville  need  not  fear  she  will  lose  prestige  should 
she  drop  them,  that  the  tourists  will  no  longer 
flock  to  her  each  spring;  she  is  only  beginning 
to  be  known  for  having  a  winter  climate  sur- 
passing that  of  Rome  and  Naples ;  pasos  or  not, 
visitors  will  inevitably  increase. 

The  objectionable  processions  began  to  march 
late  in  the  afternoon  of  Palm  Sunday,  and  it  is 
hardly  much  of  an  exaggeration  to  say  they  went 
on  marching  night  and  day  throughout  the  fol- 
lowing week.  They  were  so  long  that  they  took 
five  or  six  hours  to  pass  a  given  spot.  Starting 


306  Heroic  Spain 

back  in  the  narrow  streets  of  the  town,  they 
passed  down  the  Sierpes  which  was  lined  with 
spectators'  chairs,  defiled  before  the  City  Hall, 
where  the  Mayor  rose  to  salute  each  paso  in  turn, 
then  went  on  to  the  Cathedral,  —  entering  by  a 
west  door,  crossing  before  the  altar,  and  leaving 
by  the  door  near  the  Archbishop's  palace.  With 
each  paso  marched  the  religious  confraternity  of 
its  parish,  a  secular  brotherhood  of  men  belong- 
ing to  all  ranks,  who  are  banded  together  for 
charitable  work.  The  King  belongs  to  one  of 
these  fraternities  and  when  in  Seville  marches  in 
line,  but  the  year  of  our  visit  he  was  represented 
by  the  military  governor  of  the  province.  The 
officers  of  the  army  also  marched.  Most  of  these 
brotherhoods  wore  Nazarene  costume,  in  white, 
purple,  or  black,  with  the  high-peaked  head  gear 
through  which  only  the  eyes  showed.  Some 
walked  devoutly,  others  in  disorder.  Member- 
ship in  religious  brotherhooods  is  often  heredi- 
tary, and  it  was  touching  to  see  a  little  child  of 
four,  in  full  regalia,  marching  with  the  grown 
men,  planting  his  silver  staff  at  each  slow  pace 
with  the  gravity  of  a  majordomo.  A  band  of 
music  went  with  each  fraternity,  and  the  blare 
of  brass  instruments,  the  torches,  the  masked 
faces,  make  indeed  a  confused,  wearying  spec- 
tacle. 

Most  of  the  onlookers  hired  chairs  for  the  week 


Holy  Week  in  Seville        307 

along  the  streets,  on  balconies,  or  in  that  most 
chosen  spot,  the  square  by  the  City  Hall;  the 
populace  thronged  to  the  Cathedral,  where  the 
procession  could  be  seen  free,  and  there  the  crowd 
was  dense  to  suffocation,  chiefly  made  up  of  the 
disorderly  element  from  Triana.  The  chatter 
and  movement  made  me  ask,  could  this  be  a 
Spanish  church,  where  irreverence  is  unknown? 
Everyone  seemed  oblivious  of  the  Tenebrse  in 
the  coro.  They  buzzed  and  moved  about  in  an 
unseemly  scramble  for  seats,  so  that  only  faintest 
echoes  of  Jeremiah's  gloriously  intoned  Lamen- 
tations could  be  heard.  The  sexton  rose  now  and 
then  from  the  noisy  groups  on  the  choir  steps  to 
extinguish  one  by  one  the  candles  on  the  big  tri- 
angular candlestick,  a  noble  object  of  bronze 
used  only  at  this  season.  And  I  had  looked  for- 
ward for  months  to  hearing,  in  this  grand  Gothic 
Cathedral,  my  favorite  service  of  the  church  year, 
the  solitary  service  that  haunts  one  with  its  subtle 
beauty  from  one's  childhood.  The  disappoint- 
ment was  keen,  it  gave  just  the  final  touch  to  my 
dislike  of  the  pasos. 

There  were  times  when  I  tried  to  be  just.  See- 
ing the  men  lift  their  hats  respectfully  as  each 
group  went  by,  the  women  cross  themselves  with 
tears  in  their  eyes,  the  babies  look  on  in  awed 
wonder,  I  tried  to  drop  prejudice  and  to  see  the 
spectacle  as  does  a  southern  Spaniard :  the  noisy 


30 8  Heroic  Spain 

scene  is  so  associated  with  his  earliest,  tenderest 
memories  that  he  cannot  but  look  at  it  in  a  dif- 
ferent way.  One  evening  near  me,  a  handsome 
young  countryman,  —  moved  out  of  all  self- 
consciousness  by  the  Virgen  santisima  he  so 
loved,  in  her  wonderful  robe  and  jewels,  under  a 
canopy  richer  than  any  earthly  queen's,  —  this 
gallant  young  ma  jo  stood  forward  suddenly 
from  the  crowd  and,  with  his  eyes  fastened  on  the 
glittering  mass,  sang  a  copla  of  praise  with  the 
heart-piercing  note  of  the  folk-song.  So  fault- 
lessly artistic  a  moment  made  me  look  leniently 
on  the  pasos  for  a  time,  warning  me,  "Lest 
while  ye  gather  up  the  tares,  ye  root  up  also  the 
wheat  with  them."  But  to  be  consistent  in  this 
home  of  untamed  personalities  is  impossible! 
For  soon  a  float  of  extravagant  bad  taste  would 
go  by;  horses  with  tails  of  real  hair;  clumsy 
velvet  robes  hiding  the  excellent  carving  of  the 
statues  (and  some  of  them  are  the  work  of  the 
best  sculptor  of  Seville,  Montanes,  whose  portrait 
by  Velasquez  hangs  in  the  Prado) ;  worst  of  all 
the  Mater  Dolorosa,  covered  with  inappropri- 
ate jewels,  some  willed  her  by  former  genera- 
tions, others  lent  by  rich  Sevillian  ladies  of  to- 
day, in  her  hand  the  lace  handkerchief  of  a 
coquette:  criticism  would  leap  to  full  life  again. 
That  the  pasos  violated  the  quiet  of  the 
Cathedral,  that  they  reeked  of  the  baroque 


Holy  Week  in  Seville        309 

period  of  bad  art,  these  are  not  the  only  com- 
plaints against  them.  They  turn  all  Seville  into 
a  picnic  week.  We  began  to  ask  ourselves  if  this 
noisy  excitement  commemorated  a  solemn  time, 
what  would  the  following  week  of  the  Fair  be 
like?  The  Andalusian  can  hold  revelry  with  zest 
and  vigor  for  fourteen  unbroken  days.  Easter 
week  was  to  open  with  the  Italian  opera  and  the 
first  bull-fight  of  the  year;  there  were  to  be  three 
days  of  horse  and  cattle  show,  followed  by  three 
days  of  the  grand  Feria,  when  the  whole  pro- 
vince pours  into  Seville,  and  the  nights  are  one 
glare  of  fireworks;  maja  and  ma  jo  are  then  out 
in  all  their  finery,  and  the  families  of  the  upper 
classes  live  in  open  booths  on  the  fair  grounds, 
where  they  pay  visits  and  dance  the  national 
dances  in  public  with  the  easy  democracy  of 
true  Spaniards.  Much  as  we  hoped  to  see  this 
typical  feast,  it  began  to  dawn  on  us  early  in  the 
week  that  there  were  limits  to  endurance.  The 
hurrying  crowds,  the  blocking  of  the  streets, 
the  noise  of  vendors,  of  clashing  music,  made  the 
fatigue  indescribable.  Sleep  at  night  was  out  of 
the  question,  noisy  Triana  roamed  the  streets; 
brass  bands  would  sound,  and  in  nervous  ex- 
citement one  would  spring  to  the  balcony.  The 
hotels  were  packed  to  an  uncomfortable  extent. 
By  Good  Friday  all  desire  to  stay  over  for  the 
Fair  week  was  extinguished ;  we  were  very  close 


310  Heroic  Spain 

to  physical  collapse.  So,  taking  a  night  train, 
we  slipped  away  from  the  turmoil  to  have  a 
peaceful  Easter  Sunday  in  unspoiled  Estrema- 
dura.  There  also  they  were  having  pasos,  but 
pasos  of  such  simple  devotion,  humble,  and  prim- 
itive, that  one  knelt  with  the  crowd  in  prayer  as 
they  passed. 

Before  this  final,  hasty  desertion,  however,  I 
had  dragged  myself,  worn  out  with  a  sleepless 
night,  to  the  lengthy  services  in  the  Cathedral 
each  morning.  There,  happily,  was  nothing  to 
criticise.  The  Holy  Week  ceremonies  customary 
to  all  Catholic  Christendom,  were  carried 
through  with  dignity;  only,  since  this  was 
irrepressible  Spain,  there  were  some  local  addi- 
tions, and  most  beautiful  ones.  Such  was  the 
waving  of  a  huge  flag,  black,  with  a  large  red 
cross,  like  the  banner  of  some  military  order,  be- 
fore the  High  Altar,  while  some  special  prayers 
were  read ;  love  of  country  and  love  of  God  seem 
so  inextricably  interwoven  here.  On  Palm  Sun- 
day the  Cathedral  was  filled  with  the  stately  white 
leaves,  six  and  ten  feet  long,  from  the  palm 
forest  of  Elche;  each  canon  carried  one  and  each 
verger;  the  priests  and  acolytes  who  served  the 
Mass  bore  each  his  palm,  and  they  waved  and 
swayed  around  the  altar  in  lovely  symbolization 
of  the  Entry  into  Jerusalem  twenty  centuries 
before.  Pictures  like  that  never  fade.  A  year 


Holy  Week  in  Seville        311 

later  in  Palestine,  it  rose  vividly  before  me,  while 
driving  out  to  Bethany,  when  we  passed  some 
hundreds  of  humble  Russian  pilgrims  tramping 
back  from  the  Dead  Sea,  each  of  whom  bore  a 
palm.  For  in  very  reality  they  were  following 
the  route  of  entry  into  the  Holy  City.  Seville 
Cathedral  on  Palm  Sunday  morning  was  not 
unworthy  to  be  grouped  with  that  moving  scene. 
The  excessively  long  Gospel  was  chanted  in  the 
customary  different  keys  by  three  canons,  one 
standing  in  the  Epistle  pulpit,  one  in  the  Gospel, 
and  the  third  on  a  rostrum  erected  between  the 
two.  Near  me  several  Spaniards  of  the  artisan 
class  followed  in  Latin  every  word  of  the  lengthy 
chanting.  The  tourists  present  who  knew  not 
what  was  read,  fretted  and  moved  incessantly. 
No  intelligent  person  should  attend  a  Holy 
Week  in  either  Seville  or  Rome  without  a  special 
book,  picked  up  anywhere  for  a  couple  of  francs, 
in  which  the  services  are  given  in  Latin  and  Eng- 
lish, or  Latin  and  French.  Without  the  liturgy 
to  voice  these  ceremonies,  they  must  be  weary 
hours  indeed.  And  yet  of  the  hundreds  of 
visitors  on  this  Palm  Sunday,  literally,  not  one 
followed  with  a  book,  and  many  perhaps  held 
themselves  competent  to  criticise  what  they  had 
seen. 

Expectant  of  the  sensational,  the  tourists  filled 
the  great  church  on  Holy  Thursday  morning, 


312  Heroic  Spain 

when  the  white  veil  was  withdrawn:  it  was  done 
so  swiftly,  at  the  opportune  words  of  the  Gospel, 
that  there  was  nothing  spectacular  about  it. 
Two  days  later,  at  the  moment  in  the  Mass  when 
every  bell  in  the  city  bursts  out  in  joyous  ac- 
clamation of  the  Resurrection,  the  black  veil 
was  rent;  that  we  missed  seeing.  Some  days 
before  Holy  Week  a  towering  temple  of  wood, 
white  and  gilt,  a  hundred  feet  high,  had  been 
erected  in  the  nave  over  the  tomb  of  Columbus' 
son.  This  pseudo-classic  temple,  completely  out 
of  touch  with  the  Gothic  church,  was  to  serve  as 
the  repository  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament  on  Holy 
Thursday,  and  it  was  for  the  center  of  such 
shrines  that  the  old  silversmiths  of  Spain,  the  de 
Arfe  family,  made  their  priceless  silver  monu- 
mentos.  Such  repositories  are  customary  in  all 
Catholic  lands  on  Thursday  of  Holy  Week,  for 
in  the  midst  of  sorrow,  the  Church  celebrates  the 
foundation  of  the  Sacrament  that  has  brought 
joy  and  solace  to  mankind.  She  commemorates 
the  events  of  the  week  chronologically.  Before 
the  altars  are  dismantled  for  Good  Friday,  she 
typifies  by  lights  and  flowers,  her  gratitude  for 
that  passover  supper  in  the  upper  room.  It  is  a 
general  Catholic  custom  to  visit  a  number  of 
these  lighted  shrines  on  Holy  Thursday,  and  in 
Seville  this  usage  leads  to  one  of  the  charming 
things  of  the  week,  like  an  oasis  of  peace  in  the 


Holy  Week  in  Seville        313 

midst  of  the  arid  pasos.  Everyone  pays  these 
visits  on  foot.  During  two  days  not  a  carriage  is 
allowed  in  the  city,  the  King  himself  must  walk. 
Their  silk  mantillas,  black  or  white,  draped  high 
over  their  combs,  wearing  jewels  and  carrying 
flowers,  the  ladies  of  Seville  went  from  church  to 
church,  to  kneel  in  graceful  groups  around  the 
exposed  Host,  and  the  men  in  frock  coats  and 
high  hats  stood  in  the  rear,  in  simple  attitudes  of 
prayer:  the  Spaniard  and  the  Mussulman  are 
alike  in  their  unconsciousness  at  their  devotions. 
The  next  day  all  would  wear  deep  mourning,  but 
to-day  is  a  feast  of  rejoicing.  Each  one  goes 
in  quiet  composure,  as  if  her  mind  dwelt  on 
the  hours  of  peace  her  communions  had  brought 
her.  Again  I  felt  the  same  impression  that  the 
Christmas  midnight  Mass  had  given  me;  that 
the  imagination  of  this  people  was  busy  with  the 
past  event  they  were  celebrating.  Does  not  lack 
of  comprehension  of  old  usages  often  mean  lack 
of  the  shaping  power  of  the  imagination? 

From  one  parish  church  to  another  I  followed 
these  fascinating  women.  Here  was  true  Se- 
ville, not  seen  in  the  Cathedral's  tourist  crowd, 
nor  under  Parisian  hats  on  the  Paseo.  Wander- 
ing through  the  network  of  streets  north  of  the 
Sierpes,  I  paused  to  look  into  the  spotless  patios 
distant  as  they  ever  seem  from  the  fret  of  life.  A 
touch  of  summer  was  in  the  air;  the  marble 


314  Heroic  Spain 

courtyards  were  decked  with  flowers,  and  one 
heard  the  notes  of  singing  birds.  Two  dark-eyed 
ladies  came  out  from  a  tranquil  patio ;  they  wore 
white  mantillas  in  honor  of  their  visits  to  the 
Blessed  Sacrament.  They  set  me  dreaming  of 
Seville  in  its  summer  aspect,  when  the  skies  are 
blue  in  the  fragrant  night.  Nowhere  on  earth 
are  women  more  alluring  and  essentially  femi- 
nine, nowhere  has  man  fashioned  his  house  so 
fitly  for  charm  and  romance. 

By  chance,  on  Holy  Thursday,  I  stumbled  on 
another  local  usage,  full  of  the  same  racial  flavor. 
Returning  from  the  Cathedral,  where,  amid  a 
throng  of  sight  seers,  the  Archbishop  had  carried 
the  Host  to  the  lighted  monumento,  I  happened 
to  drop  into  the  Church  of  the  Magdalena.  It 
was  filled  with  its  own  parishioners,  since  most 
Spaniards  leave  the  Cathedral  services  of  this 
crowded  week  to  the  visitors.  Near  the  door  were 
seated  three  separate  groups  of  ladies  and  young 
girls,  belonging  unmistakably  to  the  aristocracy; 
each  wore  a  black  mantilla,1  and  in  their  tight- 
fitting  black  gowns  and  long  white  gloves,  they 
were  indescribably  elegant.  They  were  the  ladies 
in  waiting  of  the  various  altars,  their  duties  to 

1  "One  of  the  commonest  types  among  the  Greek  figurines,  certainly 
representing  the  average  Greek  lady,  might  be  supposed  to  represent  a 
Spanish  lady,  so  closely  does  the  face,  the  dress,  the  mantilla-like  cover- 
ing of  the  head,  the  erect  and  dignified  carriage,  recall  modern  Spain." 
"The  Soul  of  Spain."  —  HAVELOCK-ELLIS. 


Holy  Week  in  Seville        315 

tend  them,  and  like  the  men's  brotherhoods, 
to  help  in  the  charitable  work  of  the  parish.  The 
Magdalena  Church  is  dark,  so  on  the  table  be- 
fore these  daughters  of  Eve  stood  a  pair  of  high 
candlesticks,  between  which  lay  an  open  tray 
soliciting  contributions  for  their  special  shrines 
or  charities.  Young  beaux  entered  the  church 
and  as  they  passed  the  table,  dropped  a  duro  or  a 
paper  bill  in  the  different  trays,  according  as  they 
felt  devotion  to  such  and  such  an  altar,  or  to 
ijudge  by  the  glances  that  passed  between  the 
givers  and  receivers,  as  they  felt  devotion  to  its 
fair  caretaker.  Unexpected  scenes  like  this,  un- 
mentioned  in  the  guide  books,  give  to  this  city 
its  allurement,  enhanced  doubly  because  the 
actors  are  so  unconscious  of  their  picturesqueness. 
And  as  unpleasant  things  fade  away,  leaving 
only  the  happier  memories,  two  scenes  stand  out 
unforgettable  in  Seville's  Holy  Week:  Eslava's 
"  Miserere,"  echoing  at  midnight  through  the 
Cathedral  whose  name  is  fittingly  the  Grandeza, 
and  that  other  picture,  enchantingly  Andalusian, 
the  ladies  in  mantillas  paying  their  silent  visits 
to  the  Blessed  Sacrament  on  Holy  Thursday. 
The  pasos  fade  to  a  blurred  background  of  pomp 
and  glitter. 


CADIZ 

"  Para  que  yo  te  olvidara 
Era  menester  que  hubiera 
Otro  mundo,  y  otro  cielo, 
Y  otro  Dios  que  dispusiera." 

CANTAB  ANDALUZ. 

F —  "  The  sea  tides  tossing  free, 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  witchery  and  beauty  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea." 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

IN  the  midst  of  the  warm  Seville  winter  the 
thought  of  sea  breezes  tempted  us  to  Cadiz  for  a 
week.  The  hundred  miles'  run  down  there  was 
through  a  charming  corner  of  Andalusia,  with 
orange  groves,  olive  plantations,  woods  of  stone 
pines,  hedges  of  cactus,  in  the  meadows  herds  of 
most  royal  bulls.  It  was  the  eighteenth  of  Jan- 
uary, yet  the  fruit  trees  were  in  blossom,  and 
over  the  streams  floated  a  lovely  white-flowering 
verdure.  We  passed  Jerez,  source  of  English 
sherry,  where  on  our  return  to  Seville  we  stopped 
some  hours  to  see  the  bodegas  and  sample  the 
native  wine.  As  we  neared  the  coast  big  pyra- 
mids of  salt  covered  the  marshes,  telling  of  an- 


Cadiz  317 

other  industry ;  in  fact,  every  part  of  Andalusia 
which  I  saw  was  well  cultivated,  despite  the  guide 
book  laments  over  its  backwardness. 

Soon  came  whiffs  of  the  sea  air.  The  first 
view  of  Cadiz,  set  right  out  to  sea,  is  very  strik- 
ing. Only  a  narrow  strip  of  sand,  eight  miles 
long,  connects  it  with  the  mainland,  and  as  we 
skirted  the  coast,  past  San  Fernando,  —  where 
there  is  a  naval  station  and  an  astronomical  ob- 
servatory, —  the  compact,  sturdy  little  city  out 
in  the  Atlantic  made  a  stunning  picture;  the 
sea  so  very  blue,  the  town  so  dazzlingly  white. 

And  inside  the  treble  line  of  walls  and  moats 
that  defend  its  one  land-entrance,  the  "  silver 
dish,"  as  its  citizens  love  to  call  it,  has  as  individ- 
ual a  character  as  its  distant  prospect.  It  is 
miraculously  clean,  its  streets  seem  swept  and 
scrubbed  like  a  Dutch  village.  Down  these  nar- 
row lanes  you  catch  the  gleam  of  the  sea  to  east, 
to  north,  to  west.  When  it  rains,  Seville  turns 
into  a  muddy  distress,  but  well-drained  Cadiz 
grows  more  proper  still  in  wet  weather.  The 
patio  of  the  rest  of  Andalusia  is  not  found  here, 
for  being  confined  to  its  ledge  of  shells,  the  town 
could  not  spread  itself  about,  but  had  to  build 
itself  up  in  the  air.  On  top  of  the  high  houses, 
whose  vivid  green  balconies  add  to  the  general 
air  of  trig  neatness,  are  miradores,  small  towers 
formerly  built  by  the  merchants  as  look-outs 


318  Heroic  Spain 

from  which  they  could  spy  their  returning  gal- 
leons. The  view  of  Cadiz  from  a  mirador  is  like 
nothing  else  ever  seen:  the  clean  whiteness  of 
hundreds  of  roof  terraces,  the  church  towers  of 
colored  tiles  and  a  host  of  other  miradores,  made 
it  seem  like  a  second  city  in  itself,  suggestive  of 
the  Orient;  a  strange  city  set  in  the  blinding 
Hue  circle  of  the  ocean. 

The  town  is  almost  surrounded  by  high  sea 
avails,  four  miles  of  them,  and  on  the  Atlantic 
.-side  the  surf  breaks  in  thundering  eternity,  throw- 
ing up  spray  twenty  feet  high.  There  is  some- 
thing splendidly  plucky  about  Cadiz.  One  of  the 
few  spots  in  Europe  forced  to  battle  for  her  ex- 
istence, with  a  devouring  enemy  at  her  door, 
,she  thrives  and  continues  century  after  century. 
She  is  the  oldest  town  in  Spain,  founded  by 
Phoenician  mariners  more  than  a  thousand  years 
before  the  Christian  Era. 

"  Ah  when  the  crafty  Tyrian  came  to  Spain 
To  barter  for  her  gold  his  motley  wares, 
Treading  her  beaches  he  forgot  his  gain, 
The  Semite  became  noble  unawares." 

Spain  has  influenced  them  all,  all  the  strangers, 
the  heterogeneous  throng,  that  have  gone  to  the 
making  of  the  Spanish  race.  Phoenician,  Roman, 
Iberian,  Goth,  Jew,  and  Moor,  she  has  imprinted 
on  them  all  her  own  distinguishing  mark,  has 


Cadiz  319 

breathed  into  them  her  own  intense  soul.  For 
this  psychological  reason  it  is  true  to  say  that 
Seneca  was  a  Spaniard,  that  the  wonderful  Jew 
Maimonides  and  the  Moor  Averroes,  and  the 
Gothic  bishop,  Isidoro,  Doctor  of  the  Church 
were  all  of  them  Spaniards.  The  Catalan, 
Ramon  Lull  rang  out  the  national  note  with  no 
uncertain  sound,  mystic  hermit  and  active  mis- 
sionary. And  with  the  centuries  "  christened  in 
blood  and  schooled  in  sacrifice,"  the  spirit  grew 
more  convincingly  apparent:  Domingo  de  Guz- 
man, Francisco  Ximenez,  Gonsalvo  de  Cordova, 
Luis  de  Leon,  Inigo  de  Loyola  are  very  brothers 
with  a  like  high  fealty  that  tells  what  majestic 
mother  nurtured  them  on  her  battlefield  of  ages. 
Cadiz,  the  oldest  spot  in  Spain,  has  known  each 
of  the  conquering  races  in  turn.  She  was  four 
hundred  years  old  when  Rome  was  founded. 
She  has  had  tremendous  ups  and  downs  of  for- 
tune; at  her  height  during  the  age  of  the 
Caesars,  who  saw  her  importance  as  key  to  An- 
dalusia, then  with  the  fall  of  Rome  dropped  into 
insignificance,  her  name  almost  forgotten.  She 
rose  again  with  the  discovery  of  the  New  World, 
whose  ships  of  treasure  anchored  off  her  ram- 
parts. A  strange  outlook  on  the  passing  of 
power  lies  in  the  statement  that  in  1770  this  town 
was  a  wealthier  place  than  London.  With  the 
loss  of  the  Colonies,  Cadiz  has  sunk  back  to  be 


320  Heroic  Spain 

a  mediocre  city  in  the  world,  but  she  is  contented 
and  self-respecting. 

Though  so  remotely  ancient,  there  is  nothing 
of  old  architecture  here.  The  ramparts  have 
been  turned  into  esplanades,  where  it  is  a  joy  to 
walk,  for  the  views  are  beautiful  past  description ; 
now  across  the  bay  to  the  mainland  and  the  moun- 
tains of  Ronda,  and  down  on  the  quay  of  the  town 
itself  with  its  bay  full  of  fishing  boats;  then  to 
the  north  the  eye  seeks  farther  along  the  coast 
toward  Palos  whence  three  caravels,  the  Pinta, 
the  Nina  and  the  Santa  Maria  turned  westward 
on  a  memorable  third  of  August,  1492.  On  the 
other  side  of  Cadiz  is  the  ocean  itself  and  I  hope 
the  enterprising  town  will  some  day  carry  the 
park  along  this  western  wall,  where  the  rollers 
break  so  magnificently.  Just  past  the  public 
gardens,  a  narrow  causeway  leads  to  the  light- 
house of  San  Sebastian,  set  well  out  to  sea,  a 
favorite  walk  for  us  at  sunset  time  to  watch  the 
fishing  boats  with  their  high  prows  come  sailing 
back  to  the  harbor  each  evening.  The  sunsets 
we  saw  in  Cadiz  were  flaming  pink  and  gold  and 
red  like  those  of  the  world  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Atlantic;  also  we  saw  a  sunrise  exquisite  as  a 
dream.  It  was  here  the  ancients  first  met  the 
suggestive  wonder  of  the  open  ocean,  and  their 
philosophers  pondered  over  the  phenomenon  of 
the  tides.  They  thought  that  subterranean  ani- 


Cadiz  321 

mals  or  winds  sucked  them  in;  and  the  sun,  they 
said,  when  it  had  sunk  in  the  western  ocean,  re- 
turned to  the  east  by  subterranean  passages,  — 
guesses  about  as  wise  as  some  that  we  are  making 
to-day  on  phenomena  of  the  soul. 

I  do  not  know  if  it  was  just  chance  good  for- 
tune, but  Cadiz  will  always  be  an  exhilarating 
memory.  Its  air  was  so  bracing,  balmy  yet  full 
of  vitality.  The  moral  atmosphere  seemed  joy- 
ous and  contented;  a  hurdy-gurdy  would  strike 
up  below  in  the  street  with  the  bang  of  a  tam- 
bourine, and  from  all  the  windows  near,  pennies 
would  gayly  rattle  down.  The  people  were  cour- 
teous without  second  thought.  A  working  man 
walked  out  of  his  way  for  ten  minutes  to  direct 
us  through  the  complicated  streets,  and  then  ran 
off  with  a  laugh  to  avoid  the  fee;  a  shopman 
straightened  eye-glasses  and  genuinely  refused 
to  be  paid  for  so  small  a  service;  wonder  of 
wonders  when  our  luggage  got  carried  in  the 
wrong  hotel  diligence,  the  landlord  refused  to  let 
us  pay.  Three  such  episodes  of  disinterested- 
ness in  one  morning  give  one  a  pleasant  impres- 
sion of  a  place ;  and  this  town  has  presented  itself 
to  other  travelers  as  happily.  Byron,  to  whom 
this  "  renowned  romantic  land  "  as  he  called  her, 
was  eminently  sympathetic,  wrote  to  his  mother, 
in  1809,  "  Cadiz,  sweet  Cadiz!  it  is  the  first  spot 
in  the  creation.  The  beauty  of  its  streets  and 


322  Heroic  Spain 

mansions  are  only  excelled  by  the  loveliness  of 
its  inhabitants,  the  finest  women  in  Spain." 

Cadiz  is  enough  of  a  place,  with  a  bishopric  and 
a  garrison,  to  have  the  air  of  a  capital ;  we  noticed 
many  men  of  the  best  hidalgo  type,  like  those 
who  stand  behind  Spinola  in  the  "  Surrender  of 
Breda."  In  the  park  was  an  outdoor  theater; 
children  played  diavolo;  and  nice  little  Spanish 
girls  walked  up  and  down  with  their  English 
governesses.  One  could  write  or  sew  outdoors 
without  exciting  a  glance  of  surprise.  We  used 
to  spend  hours  under  the  palm  trees  of  the  Ala- 
meda  sewing  and  reading  and  watching  the 
groups  about  us,  for  in  spite  of  its  being  mid- 
winter, the  air  was  warm  enough  for  spending 
the  day  out-of-doors.  Cleanliness  and  godliness: 
Cadiz  can  boast  of  excellent  public  institutions. 
The  new  hospital  that  faces  the  Atlantic  breezes, 
and  where  only  a  fraction  of  a  franc  is  paid  daily, 
could  well  be  envied  by  the  rich  of  new  world 
cities.  Its  poor  house  is  noted,  and  it  has  a 
host  of  minor  charities;  a  Casa  de  Viudas  for 
widows,  a  Casa  de  Hermanos,  a  Casa  de  Locos 
for  the  insane,  tended,  as  are  the  others,  by  alert, 
willing  nuns.  It  is  a  public-spirited  little  city, 
with  a  school  of  music  and  art,  an  Institute  whose 
physical  laboratory  is  the  best  in  Spain,  two 
Public  Libraries,  for  that  of  the  Bishop  is  also 
open  free  to  the  people. 


ALIFOI 


Cadiz  323 

The  tourist  sights  here  are  soon  seen;  the 
Capuchin  church  where  Murillo  painted  his 
last  picture,  and  where  he  fell  from  the  scaffold, 
soon  after  dying  in  Seville  from  the  accident. 
There  are  two  Cathedrals,  one  so  sacked  by  Eng- 
lish bucaneers  that  there  is  little  to  be  seen,  and 
the  other  a  quite  dreadful  eighteenth  century 
affair.  The  dull  Museo  has  some  good  modern 
works,  a  bishop's  head  in  profile  by  Garcia  y 
Ramos  that  is  first  rate  art;  and  there  is  a  trip- 
tych by  a  very  early  painter,  Gallegos,  the  Span- 
ish Primitive,  which  to  my  mind  is  more  religious 
than  the  Murillos  and  the  Zurbarans.  It  is  a 
Pieta,  and  the  eyes  of  the  mourners  are  naively 
red  from  weeping,  like  Francia's  Pietas  in 
Parma. 

Almost  impregnable  walls  and  moats  shut  off 
the  isthmus  that  leads  to  the  mainland,  and  their 
strength  explains  how  Cadiz  could  have  defied 
the  French  for  two  years  during  the  War  of 
Liberation,  without  suffering  the  horrors  of  the 
Gerona  siege.  The  blockade  began  in  1808,  soon 
after  the  heroic  Dos  de  Mayo  in  Madrid.  Quin- 
tana's  poem  rang  like  a  trumpet  call  over  the 
land:  "I Antes  la  muerte  que  consentir  jamas 
ningun  tirano! "  No  idle  boast !  Spain  was  cele- 
brating the  centenary  of  the  second  of  May  dur- 
ing our  visit,  and  the  scenes  were  moving  and 
patriotic.  You  realized  Lord  Peterborough's 


324  Heroic  Spain 

remark,  that  this  was  an  unconquerable  land 
if  her  people  resisted  the  invader.  Statues  and 
tablets  for  the  war  heroes  were  unveiled,  and 
songs  and  marches  composed  for  the  anniver- 
sary. The  artillery  officers  organized  a  splendid 
parade  of  children  that  marched  under  the  arch 
of  Montleon,  where  Ruiz,  and  Velarde,  and 
Daoiz  fought,  and  there  the  King,  holding  the 
baby  Prince  of  Asturias  in  his  arms,  showed  him 
how  to  kiss  his  country's  flag.  Memorial  Mass 
was  said  in  the  street  outside  the  house  where 
Velarde  died,  and  toward  evening  one  of  the 
Madrid  parishes  marched  out,  its  priests  leading, 
to  the  cemetery  where  the  Dos  de  Mayo  victims 
were  buried,  and  deposited  wreaths  in  patriotic 
reverence. 

Cadiz'  old  church,  St.  Philip  Neri,  is  where  the 
permanent  endurance  of  the  first  outburst  of 
patriotism  in  1808  was  made  possible.  Here  the 
Cortes  met  again  after  three  hundred  years'  sup- 
pression under  the  Hapsburgs  and  Bourbons, 
here  they  abolished  the  Inquisition,  and  here  they 
drew  up  the  Constitution  of  1812,  which  was  to 
be  tossed  backward  and  forward  during  the  next 
half  century  of  disorders,  to  emerge  finally  with 
victory. 

An  eloquent  priest  was  the  first  speaker  to 
open  the  historic  meeting,  and  as  he  laid  down 
the  program,  the  sovereignty  of  the  nation  to 


Cadiz  325 

lie  in  the  Cortes,  and  the  King  to  exist  for  the 
people,  not  the  people  for  the  King  as  hereto- 
fore, Spain  again  had  her  foot  on  the  ladder  of 
progress.  No  wonder  that  the  national  military 
air  of  Spain  is  the  Marcha  de  Cadiz.  The  clean, 
smokeless,  plucky  little  city  has  right  to  a  proud 
stand  out  in  the  Atlantic.  Her  age-long  enemy, 
the  ocean,  had  trained  her  well  to  strike  a  first 
blow  for  freedom. 


A  FEW  MODERN   NOVELS 

"  Don  Quixote  is  not,  as  Montesquieu  pretended,  the 
only  good  Spanish  book,  which  in  reaction  against 
the  national  spirit,  ridiculed  the  others.  It  is  rather  the 
epitome  of  our  national  spirit,  war-like  and  religious, 
full  of  sane  realism  and  none  the  less  enthusiastic  for  all 
that  is  great  and  beautiful."  —  DON  JUAN  VALEEA. 

IT  was  the  German  philosopher  Hegel  who  called 
the  "  Romancero  del  Cid  "  the  most  nobly  beau- 
tiful poem,  ideal  and  real  at  the  same  time,  that 
the  Epic  Muse  had  inspired  since  Homer.  Ideal 
and  real  at  the  same  time,  herein  lies  the  first 
characteristic  of  Spanish  literature,  of  to-day  as 
well  as  of  the  past.  No  keener  realistic  pictures 
of  a  nation  were  ever  drawn  than  in  "  Quixote," 
yet  no  book  was  ever  more  idealistic;  and  the 
path  plowed  so  deeply  by  Cervantes,  has  been 
followed  by  the  modern  novelists  of  Spain.  Their 
feet  are  well  planted  on  the  ground,  but  they  do 
not  think  it  necessary  to  prove  they  walk  the 
earth  by  wallowing  in  its  mud.  These  modern 
Spanish  romances  tell  of  the  passions  and  sorrows 
of  virile  men  and  women,  and  at  the  same  time 
they  can  boast  that  they  are  free  from  the  moral 
evil  so  rampart  in  French  novels.  "  Quixote  "  is 
not  exactly  a  prude's  book,  yet  the  "  jeune  fille  " 


ST.  FRANCIS  or  ASSIST 
A  wood-carving  by  Carmona,  Museum  of  Leon 


A  Few  Modern  Novels       327 

can  read  it  unharmed  and  Cervantes  has  served 
in  this  point  as  a  standard.1 

Few  realize  the  delightful  field  of  modern  fic- 
tion that  lies  ready  to  be  explored  once  enough 
Spanish  has  been  mastered  for  reading.  After 
three  months'  study  only  we  found  we  could  take 
up  and  enjoy  "  Don  Quixote,"  for  contrary  to 
the  popular  idea,  its  language  is  no  more  archaic 
than  is  the  English  of  Hamlet  or  Henry  IV;  a 
great  genius  fixes  the  tongue  in  which  he  writes. 

The  best  of  the  novelists  of  this  last  half  cen- 
tury, when  the  revival  came  about,  are  Valera 
and  Pereda.  Some  would  make  a  triology  by 
placing  Perez  Galdos  side  by  side  with  them. 
For  instance  the  historian  Altamira,  being  in 
sympathy  with  the  frankly  revolutionary  theories 
which  Galdos  advocates,  calls  him  the  first,  the 
Balzac  of  Spain,  but  the  Balzac  of  a  people  is 
never  against  the  traditions  of  his  race  as  Galdos 

1  The  same  trait  is  shown  in  the  astonishingly  fecund  theater  of 
Spain,  where  is  found  for  one  golden  century  the  indelible  mark  of 
the  race.  First  came  Lope  de  Vega  with  his  dashing  picaresque 
comedies  de  capa  y  espada,  that  more  induce  to  laughter  than  to 
vice,  the  vigorous  and  supple  Lope,  whom  all  nations  have  "found 
good  to  steal  from."  Then  followed  the  powerful  Tirso  de  Molina, 
a  dramatist  of  vision  and  passion,  and  Ruiz  de  Alacon  with  his  high 
ethical  aim  and  equal  execution,  and  finally  Calderon,  who  in  the 
midst  of  his  plays  shows  himself  an  exquisite  lyric  poet.  In  Seville 
we  used  to  see  what  would  here  be  a  dime-museum  crowd  pouring 
into  an  hour's  bit  of  frolic,  such  as  Benevente's  "Intereses  Creados," 
of  the  true  cape-and-sword  type.  Those  plays  which  we  personally 
saw  proved  to  us  Valera's  words,  that  erotic  literature  rises  in  sad- 
ness and  pessimism,  not  in  the  hearty  bravura  and  zest  of  life  of 
the  Spanish  theater. 


328  Heroic  Spain 

often  is.  "  Toda  comparacion  es  odiosa "  the 
dear  Don  warns  us.  Personally  I  give  the  first 
place  to  Valera  and  Pereda,  in  whose  work  is 
found  the  note  of  literature;  Pereda  the  strength 
of  the  northern  mountains,  Valera  the  allurement 
of  the  south.  Happily  for  their  permanence  and 
their  value  as  human  documents,  the  Spanish 
writers  are  local.  Each  describes  his  own  prov- 
ince, his  own  paisanos.  Dona  Emilia  Pardo 
Bazan  paints  her  Galicia ;  Alacon  his  Andalusia ; 
Valdes  and  Perez  Galdos  are  more  cosmopolitan 
and  I  should  say  lose  by  it;  Blasco  Ibanez  writes 
of  Valencia,  Leopoldo  Alas  has  vivified  the 
Asturias. 

The  revival  of  the  novela  de  costumbres,  which 
suits  the  Spanish  temperament,  just  as  the  ro- 
mantic or  fantastic  tale  suits  the  German,  may  be 
said  to  have  been  started  by  that  talented  Sevil- 
lian  authoress  who  wrote  under  the  name  of  Fer- 
nan  Caballero.  She  had  not  the  gift  of  a  good 
style,  and  most  of  her  books  are  already  of  the 
past,  but  in  "  La  Gaviota,"  published  in  1849,  her 
passionate  love  for  Spain  and  its  ways  has  made 
a  novel  that  is  likely  to  endure.  The  tale  tells  of 
many  old  customs :  how  on  the  night  of  Novem- 
ber 2d,  the  Brotherhood  of  the  Rosary  of  the 
Dawn  rises  to  pray  for  the  souls  in  Purgatory, 
how  one  of  the  sodality  goes  from  house  to  house 
to  rouse  the  others,  striking  a  bell  and  singing: 


A  Few  Modern  Novels       329 

"  I  am  at  your  door  with  a  bell ; 
I  do  not  call  you ;  it  does  not  call  you ; 
'T  is  your  mother,  't  is  your  father  who  call  you, 
And  they  beg  you  to  pray  for  them  to  God." 

And  each  member  rises  and  follows  the  frater- 
nity. A  land  does  not  lose  that  has  such  customs 
among  its  peasantry,  that  weaves  in  its  religious 
belief  with  the  inextricable  souvenirs  of  home  and 
childhood.  A  Spanish  child  is  brought  up  on 
songs  of  the  Passion  and  the  .Virgin  as  nat- 
urally as  we  on  Mother  Goose.  When  he  sees  a 
chimney-sweep  he  exclaims  "  El  Rey  Melchor! " 
for  the  visit  of  the  Three  Kings  of  the  East  is  real 
to  him.  He  knows  the  owl  was  present  at  the 
Crucifixion,  whence  his  terror-stricken  cry  of 
"Crux!  Crux!"  that  the  kindly  swallows  re- 
lieved the  Saviour  of  the  thorns,  and  the  gold- 
finches of  the  three  agonizing  nails : 

"  En  el  monte  Calvario  En  el  monte  Calvario 

Las  golondrinas  Los  jilgueritos 

Le  quitaron  a  Cristo  Le  quitaron  £  Cristo 

Las  cinco  espinas.  Los  tres  clavitos." 

The  serpent  according  to  Spanish  lore,  went 
proudly  erect  after  his  success  with  Eve,  until 
down  in  Egypt  one  day,  he  tried  to  bite  the  little 
Infant  Jesus,  whereupon  St.  Joseph  indignantly 
rebuked  him  and  ordered  him  never  to  rise  again. 
The  rosemary  is  loved  and  given  away  as  pre- 
sents because  when  formerly  a  common  plant, 


330  Heroic  Spain 

once  the  Blessed  Virgin  hung  out  on  it  to  dry  the 
clothes  of  her  divine  Infant,  and  it  became  for- 
ever green  and  fragrant.  The  children  at  play 
sing  these  legends  and  folk-songs;  on  Christ- 
mas eve  they  dance  their  "Alegria!  Alegria! 
Alegria!"  A  suggestive  young  writer  of  Gra- 
nada, Angel  Ganivet,  says  that  in  Spain  Chris- 
tian philosophy  did  not  remain  hidden  in  books, 
but  worked  its  way  into  the  very  life  of  the 
people,  where  it  is  found  in  the  popular  songs  and 
customs :  "  Nuestra  '  Summa  '  teologica  y  filoso- 
fica  estd  en  nuestro  l  Romancer  o.' ' 

Fernan  Caballero  started  the  revival  of  the 
novel  and  its  flowering  soon  followed.  Don  Juan 
Valera,  though  always  interested  in  literature, 
had  been  prevented  by  his  active  life  from  him- 
self writing  till  middle  age.  When  in  1874 
"  Pepita  Jimenez  "  appeared,  it  took  his  coun- 
trymen by  storm,  and  this  first  novel,  written  by 
chance,  was  soon  followed  by  others;  a  true 
creative  artist  had  tardily  discovered  his  genius. 
I  cannot  speak  of  Don  Juan  Valera  without  an 
admiration  which  to  those  who  do  not  know  his 
works  may  seem  extreme.  From  his  books  his 
personality  stands  out  as  clearly  as  that  of  Cer- 
vantes, equable,  high-minded,  with  that  mellow 
wisdom  which  has  gleaned  the  best  from  a  life  full 
of  opportunities.  In  his  "  Discursos  Academi- 
cos,"  two  volumes  that  make  enchanting  read- 


A  Few  Modern  Novels       331 

ing  —  enchanting  and  academical  do  not  often 
go  together  —  he  disclaims  the  title  of  thinker, 
yet  he  was  a  profound  observer.  His  satire  is 
of  that  kindly  quality  that  leaves  no  sting.  He 
has  charm,  that  salt  of  the  writer;  he  is  never  ex- 
aggerated nor  embittered.  This  quality  of  ame- 
nity he  shares  too  with  his  master,  whom  he  can 
write  of  with  an  absolute  comprehension  just  as 
Cervantes  himself  could  make  a  Quixote  because 
he  was  akin.  It  was  a  happy  chance  that  the  last 
words  of  the  modern  novelist  (over  eighty  and 
blind,  yet  alert  in  mental  interests)  should  have 
been  the  unfinished  paper  for  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy, to  celebrate  in  1904  the  three  hundredth  an- 
niversary of  "  Don  Quixote."  His  Spanish  blood 
let  Valera  understand  the  heights  of  mysticism, 
skeptic  though  he  was  by  force  of  circumstances; 
he  could  write  with  enthusiasm  of  St.  Teresa. 
On  woman  he  held  advanced  ideas,  he  advocated 
her  highest  education,  especially  the  cultivation 
of  letters,  for  he  said  that  if  man  alone  wrote  half 
the  knowledge  of  the  human  soul  would  be  lost; 
civilizations  where  women  are  not  given  education 
and  knowledge  never  arrive  at  their  full  flower- 
ing; it  is  as  if  the  collective  soul  of  the  nation  had 
clipped  one  of  its  wings.  His  own  culture  was 
an  all-round  one.  He  had  the  intimate  knowl- 
edge that  residence  in  foreign  lands  gives: 
English  thought,  German,  Italian,  Austrian, 


332  Heroic  Spain 

American  north  and  south,  the  Orient  and  its 
religions,  in  every  country  his  literary  interests 
had  been  alert.  Thus  he  had  a  curiously  minute 
knowledge  of  the  North  American  poets.  Of  his 
own  race  essentially,  he  yet  was  cosmopolitan  in 
the  higher  meaning  of  the  word.  All  that  went 
to  make  up  dislike  and  division  between  nations 
he  deplored  as  ignorance  of  man's  higher  destiny 
of  brotherhood.  It  is  not  hard  to  read  between  the 
lines  sometimes  of  his  sensitive  shrinking  in  his 
travels  under  the  uncomprehending  criticism  of 
his  native  land;  the  world,  especially  the  Eng- 
lish-speaking world,  has  but  a  veiled  contempt 
for  things  Spanish.  He  has  righted  his  country 
in  his  books  without  a  touch  of  aggressive  im- 
patience, by  simply  describing  things  as  they  are. 
Valera  has  set  his  romances  in  the  Andalusia 
he  knew  best.  He  was  born  at  Cabra  in  the  prov- 
ince of  Cordova  in  1824,  the  son  of  a  naval  officer 
and  the  Marquesa  de  Paniega.  He  received  the 
best  of  educations  and  when  twenty-two  accom- 
panied the  Spanish  ambassador,  the  poet-duke  de 
Rivas  to  Naples.  Then  followed  half  a  life-time 
of  diplomatic  posts:  Lisbon,  Rio  de  Janeiro, 
Dresden,  St.  Petersburg,  as  Minister  Plenipoten- 
tiary to  Washington  in  1883  and  later  to  Brus- 
sels, finally  as  Ambassador  to  Vienna.  He  was 
also  a  member  of  the  Cortes,  a  Councilor  of 
State,  and  was  one  of  the  embassy  sent  to  Flor- 


A  Few  Modern  Novels      333 

ence  to  offer  the  Crown  to  Amadeus  I.  During 
the  two  years  of  the  Republic  he  retired,  but  re- 
turned to  active  life  on  the  advent  of  Alfonso 
XII.  Although  a  man  of  the  world  Valera  was 
a  born  artist.  Only  in  his  first  romance  did  he 
show  the  hand  of  the  novice.  His  literary  style 
is  a  simple  and  limpid  medium  that  leaves  be- 
hind unfading  pictures  of  country  and  town; 
he  has  done  what  Balzac  calls  adding  new  beings 
a  Vetat  civil. 

"  Pepita  Jimenez  "  came  out  in  1874,  "  Dona 
Luz  "  in  1879,  two  vignettes  of  Andalusian  wo- 
men immortalizing  two  very  different  types; 
Pepita  of  grace,  passion,  charm,  compact,  of 
the  very  heart  of  femininity,  adorable  despite  her 
failings,  achieving  her  own  happiness  against 
all  odds ;  Dona  Luz,  idealistic,  dignified  in  mind 
and  manner,  of  the  type  of  a  Vittoria  Colonna, 
proudly  bearing  the  heart-outrage  fate  sent  her, 
since  her  soul,  for  her  the  essential,  had  found  its 
mystic  way  out.  I  do  not  think  that  in  any  fic- 
tion there  is  a  more  subtly  given  relationship 
than  that  of  this  noble  creature  Luz  and  the  Do- 
minican missionary  from  the  Philippines,  Padre 
Enrique,  scholar  and  dumb  poet.  What  with  a 
Zola  had  been  revolting,  with  Valera  is  humanly 
heart-breaking  and  spiritually  ennobling,  it  could 
shock  no  piety ;  only  a  man  of  elevated  character 
and  the  most  sensitive  discernment  could  so  touch 


334  Heroic  Spain 

on  undefined  emotions.  The  friendship  of  Dona 
Luz  and  the  doctor's  captivating  daughter  is  a 
warm-hearted  relationship  of  two  young  and 
pretty  women  declared  impossible  by  many  nov- 
elists. This  tale  of  beautiful  and  tragic  sincerity 
had  been  preceded  by  another,  also  set  in  one  of 
the  smaller  Andalusian  towns,  and  written  with 
the  lightness  of  manner  and  seriousness  of  matter 
that  show  the  master  hand:  "El  Comendador 
Mendoza,"  I  cannot  help  feeling  veils  much  of 
the  author's  own  self.  These  stories  show  the 
soundness  of  the  simple  people.  Swift  marriages 
are  looked  on  with  disapproval;  how,  they  ask, 
can  esteem  or  true  knowledge  of  character  be 
gained  in  a  few  months.1  So  in  Spain  the  oppor- 
tunities allowed  the  novioSj  the  young  people  who 
choose  each  other  from  mutual  attraction,  are  un- 
heard of  in  France  or  Italy.  High-born  or  lowly, 
a  Spanish  girl  can  savor  the  romance  of  life,  with- 
out disrepute,  by  talking  at  the  reja  during  the 
midnight  hours;  before  marriage  she  is  allowed 
a  freedom  of  speech,  a  sal,  a  self-development, 
denied  her  sisters  in  other  Latin  countries. 

It  is  not  possible  to  touch  on  all  of  Valera's 
stories,  for  his  vein  once  discovered,  proved  a  rich 
one.  His  longest  novel  has  a  poorly-chosen 
name,  "  Las  Ilusiones  del  Doctor  Faustino  "  and 

1  "Es  menester  mucho  tiempo  para  venir  a  conocer  las  personas,"  is 
one  of  Sancho  Panza's  wise  saws. 


A  Few  Modern  Novels       335 

is  not  very  well  constructed,  not  enough  is  elim- 
inated for  art;  but  always  there  is  the  charm  of 
the  south,  the  midnight  talking  at  the  reja  — 
those  happy  novios  of  Spain!  —  the  drowsiness 
of  the  noontime  siesta,  the  vivacity  of  the  even- 
ing tertulia,  that  innocent  way  of  diverting  them- 
selves every  night  from  nine  to  twelve,  the  same 
group  of  friends  meeting  year  after  year.  Con- 
stantly, as  I  read  Spanish  novels,  I  say  a  people 
that  get  so  much  out  of  so  little  are  a  lovable  peo- 
ple, wholesome  and  of  vigorous  promise. 

It  was  indeed  with  very  different  eyes  that 
I  looked  out  on  the  distant  towns  as  we  passed 
in  the  train,  they  were  peopled  now  with  living 
people,  a  Pepita,  a  high-minded  Luz,  a  phil- 
osophic Don  Fresco,  a  kindly  Dona  Araceli,  I 
felt  that  I  was  not  quite  a  stranger  here,  now 
that  Don  Juan  Valera  had  lifted  from  me  the 
curtain  of  ignorance  and  prejudice  that  hides 
the  everyday  life  of  Spain. 

The  same  year  that  saw  the  appearance  of 
"  Pepita  Jimenez "  brought  to  light  another 
tale  that  will  last  as  long,  it  does  not  seem  too 
much  to  say,  as  the  "  Quixote  "  itself.  In  "  El 
Sombrero  de  Tres  Picos,"  Alacon  has  achieved 
a  masterpiece.  It  is  a  slight  tale  of  a  few  hun- 
dred pages,  in  the  genre  style,  a  picture  of  the 
old  regime  before  the  French  invasion  of  1808 
broke  down  the  Chinese  wall  of  the  Pyrenees. 


336  Heroic  Spain 

No  description  can  do  justice  to  its  crisp,  spark- 
ling charm,  to  Frasquita,  beautiful  as  a  goddess, 
Eve  herself,  with  a  laugh  like  the  repique  de 
Sdbado  de  Gloria;  to  her  ugly,  ironical,  adora- 
bly malicious  and  sympathetic  husband  Lucas, 
the  vibrant  note  of  whose  voice  won  all  hearts, 
to  whom  his  Frasquita  was  mas  bueno  que  el 
pan.  Lucas  and  his  wife  are  Shakespearean 
creations.  Then  there  is  that  pompous  van- 
ity, the  Corregidor,  Don  Eugenio  de  Zunigo  y 
Ponce  de  Leon,  in  his  red  cape,  gold  shoe  buckles, 
and  hat  of  three  peaks.  What  a  scene  is  that  of 
the  Bishop's  visit  to  the  miller's  garden!  And 
in  what  country  but  democratic  Spain  would  a 
bishop  stroll  out  with  canons  and  grandees  to 
while  away  a  friendly  hour  with  a  miller?  In- 
imitable tale,  Spanish  to  the  core,  it  is  this  that 
make  a  nation's  glory,  a  "  Don  Quixote,"  a 
"Sotileza,"  a  "Dona  Luz,"  a  "Sombrero  de 
Tres  Picos." 

Don  Pedro  Antonio  de  Alacon  belonged,  like 
Valera,  to  an  old  family  of  Andalusia,  but  not  in 
the  elder  novelist's  fortunate  circumstances ;  one 
of  ten  sons,  he  had  more  or  less  to  place  himself 
in  life.  He  was  born  in  Gaudix  in  1833;  studied 
law  at  the  University  of  Granada;  and  natu- 
rally gravitated  toward  Madrid,  the  center  of 
political  and  literary  interests.  He  flung  him- 
self headlong  into  the  republican  anti-clerical 


A  Few  Modern  Novels       337 

ideas  of  that  troubled  time,  but  in  later  life  his 
theories  toned  down  so  that  he  ended  as  a  believer 
and  a  liberal  conservative.  Throughout  a  long 
political  career  Alacon  kept  his  honor  unstained; 
although  often  with  friends  in  power,  it  was  only 
after  twenty-one  years  of  politics  that  he  accepted 
a  post,  on  the  advent  of  Alfonso  XII,  whose  re- 
turn he  had  advocated  long  before  it  came  about. 
He  had  begun  writing  when  very  young,  thus 
"  El  Clavo,"  a  powerful  sketch,  was  done  when 
barely  twenty.  Like  many  of  Spain's  authors,  he 
turned  soldier  when  the  call  came,  and  served  in 
the  1860  campaign  in  Africa  of  which  he  has  left 
a  vivid  chronicle,  "  Diario  de  un  Testigo  de  la 
Guerra  en  Africa."  "  El  Sombrero  "  was  fol- 
lowed by  "El  Escandalo,"  a  novel  widely  dis- 
cussed in  Spain.  The  story  opens  strongly,  but  it 
scatters  toward  the  end;  Alacon  is  better  in  the 
tale  than  in  sustained  work.  He  can  snap  his 
fingers  at  our  criticism,  his  Corregidor  and  his 
Molinera  have  made  him  one  of  the  immortals. 

To  another  modern  novelist,  to  Perez  Galdos, 
I  feel  I  am  not  fair,  but  I  find  so  much  of  his 
work  antipathetic  that,  as  he  has  not  a  good 
style  and  often  offends  good  taste,  I  cannot  force 
a  liking.  Brunetiere  speaks  of  the  intolerance 
of  the  naturalist  school  of  novelists,  the  intol- 
erance of  the  free-thinker.  Those  who  advocate 
the  extreme  republican,  anti-clerical  theories  in 


338  Heroic  Spain 

Spain  have  this  intolerance  to  a  marked  degree. 
Perez  Galdos  is  so  biassed  that  he  distorts  his 
characters  from  their  natural  evolution  by  mak- 
ing them  voice  his  own  ideas.  The  "  roman  a 
these  "  may  win  a  greater  fame  for  the  first  hour, 
but  it  is  sure  to  pass  with  the  changing  questions 
of  the  time.  The  much-praised  "  Dona  Per- 
fecta  "  struck  me  as  absurdly  untrue  to  human 
nature.  The  heroine  is  presented  as  a  not  un- 
common type  of  religious  development,  naturally 
where  there  is  intense  religious  feeling  there  is  a 
bigot  here  and  there,  but  this  Lady  Perfection  is 
not  a  consistent  human  being,  but  a  monster. 
While  anxious  for  her  nephew  to  leave  she  yet 
urges  him  to  stay,  no  reason  why;  she  could 
easily  have  rid  herself  of  him  yet  she  brings  about 
his  death.  Her  character  of  the  beginning  does 
not  match  with  her  character  of  the  end  (the 
novelist  offends  several  times  in  this  way).  The 
thin-visaged,  oily  priest-villain  gives  an  aside  over 
the  footlights :  "  I  have  tried  tricks,  but  there  is 
no  sin  in  tricks.  My  conscience  is  clear  " :  evi- 
dently old-fashioned  melodramatics  are  not  yet 
extinct.  It  is  quite  impossible  for  a  well-bred 
Spaniard  to  have  insulted  his  kind  hosts,  as  does 
Pepe,  by  telling  them  crudely  that  their  Christian 
belief  is  a  fable  as  past  as  paganism,  "  all  the 
absurdities,  falsities,  illusions,  dreams,  are  over," 
to-day  there  is  no  more  multiplication  of  bread 


A  Few  Modern  Novels       339 

and  fishes,  but  the  rule  of  industry  and  machines. 
I  think  most  people  will  feel  that  the  characters  of 
this  book  can  intrigue  and  murder  and  throw  in 
realistic  asides  as  much  as  they  will,  we  do  not 
hate  them  because  they  fail  to  convince  us  that 
they  ever  really  existed.  They  are  just  mouth- 
pieces for  their  author's  theories.  In  another 
novel,  "  Gloria,"  a  beautiful  passionate  girl  of 
sixteen  is  incapable  of  being  the  pedantic  prig 
Galdos  makes  her  in  the  opening  chapters.  Hap- 
pily for  the  romance  and  for  the  weary  reader, 
once  the  novelist  warms  to  his  story,  religious 
discussions  go  to  the  wall  and  he  presents  a 
moving  tragedy.  Would  that  he  could  have  kept 
up  to  the  level  of  parts  of  this  novel,  that  which 
presents  Gloria's  uncles,  for  instance,  but  he 
is  very  unequal.  After  scenes  so  true  to  life 
that  they  are  a  joy,  he  will  indulge  in  the 
pseudo-giantesque  of  some  of  Hugo's  purple 
patches,  and  only  high  genius  can  take  such  lib- 
erties. Thus  in  a  tempest  a  church  lamp  falls; 
it  breaks  the  glass  of  the  urn  in  which  lies  the 
Dead  Christ,  it  slaps  St.  Joseph  in  the  face,  it 
knocks  the  sword  from  the  hand  of  St.  Michael, 
and  finishes  its  zig-zag  career  by  crashing  into 
a  confessional.  Lamps  of  anti-clerics  only  seem 
to  act  in  this  all-round,  satisfying  way;  realists, 
like  Pereda  and  Valera,  are  incapable  of  such  ex- 
aggeration. Some  critics  hold  "  Angel  Guerra  " 


34°  Heroic  Spain 

and  "  Fortuna  y  Jaeinta  "  to  be  the  best  of  Gal- 
dos. His  "  Episodios  Nacionales  "  are  a  series 
of  novels  on  the  events  of  the  past  century  in 
Spain.  In  spite  of  vivid  scenes,  they  seemed  to 
me  long-winded  and  confusing;  one  must  be 
Spanish,  they  say,  to  appreciate  them. 

Benito  Perez  Galdos  was  born  in  1845  in  the 
Canary  Islands.  He  has  been  an  artist,  a  law- 
yer, a  political!,  and  a  journalist;  in  twenty  years 
he  has  produced  forty-two  volumes,  a  record 
which  makes  his  inequalities  easy  to  understand. 
Personally  he  is  a  sincere  and  upright  character. 
Although  an  avowed  free-thinker  he  sits  in  rev- 
erence at  the  feet  of  his  fellow  novelist,  Pereda, 
an  ardent  believer,  and  it  was  to  be  near  him  that 
he  fixed  his  home  in  Santander:  ''  Our  master," 
he  calls  him,  "  a  great  poet  in  prose,  the  most 
classic  and  at  the  same  time  the  greatest  innovator 
of  our  writers." 

Far  below  Perez  Galdos,  who,  if  not  the  first, 
is  a  distinguished  and  talented  novelist,  is  Blasco 
Ibanez,  of  the  same  school  of  anti-clerics  and  ex- 
treme republicanism.  His  stories  are  vigorous, 
crude  studies  of  Valencia,  that  province  which 
the  proverb  says  is  "  a  paradise  inhabited  by  de- 
mons," and  because  so  local,  the  books  are  valu- 
able; personally  I  lay  down  such  a  tale  as  "  Flor 
de  Mayo  "  or  "  Arroz  y  Tartana  "  depressed  and 
sick  at  heart.  Ibanez  lacks  ideality  and  elevation 


A  Few  Modern  Novels       341 

of  sentiment;  he  pictures  ignoble  lives  in  monot- 
onous detail,  all  is  labored  description,  for  the 
characters  never  speak  themselves,  the  author  de- 
scribes their  conversation.  One  sentence  of  San- 
cho,  one  sentence  of  the  Don  and  you  know  who 
speaks !  It  is  to  this  minor  novelist  that  a  recent 
French  book,  "  Les  Maitres  du  Roman  Espagnol 
Contemporain,"  by  a  Monsieur  F.  Vezinet, 
devotes  a  fourth  of  its  pages,  while  dismissing 
Pereda  contemptuously,  and  not  even  mention- 
ing "  Sotileza,"  his  great  sea-masterpiece.  Un- 
der the  guise  of  literary  criticism,  the  French 
writer  veils  a  polemic  against  religion :  "  For 
Christians  actually  do  find  solace  in  a  belief  in 
a  future  life,"  is  one  of  his  remarks.  On  meet- 
ing in  Spanish  fiction  a  dignified  reserve  in  scenes 
of  passion,  this  teacher  of  young  men  —  he  is 
professor  in  the  Lycee  of  Lyons  —  supplies  the 
pepper  lacking  by  telling  how  a  French  naturalist 
would  have  described  the  same  scenes. 

Another  Spanish  writer  of  the  free-thinking 
school,  but  of  good  literary  quailty,  is  Leopoldo 
Alas,  author  of  "  La  Regenta,"  and  a  caustic, 
intelligent  critic  who  under  the  name  of  Clarin 
did  much  to  prick  Spain  awake  to  intellectual  in- 
terest. Though  born  in  Zamora  (1852)  he  so 
associated  himself  with  Oviedo,  where  he  studied 
and  later  was  professor  in  the  University,  that  he 
may  be  called  a  son  of  the  Asturias.  "  La  Re- 


342  Heroic  Spain 

genta  "  is  a  powerful  psychological  novel,  set  in 
Oviedo,  somewhat  long  drawn  out,  for  the  minute 
following  of  Ana  Ozores  in  her  downfall  too 
closely  approaches  pathology.  Ana,  who  resem- 
bles a  little  her  namesake  of  Russia,  (Alas  has 
treated  the  real  issue  with  the  same  uncompro- 
mising morality  as  Tolstoi)  is  a  brilliant,  lovable 
woman,  capable  of  the  highest,  a  girl  who  at  six- 
teen can  read  St.  Augustine  with  emotion;  but 
she  is  fatally  doomed  by  the  limitations  of  a 
woman's  life  in  her  station.  The  acute  Alas 
here  puts  his  finger  on  a  real  evil  in  his  country, 
the  lack  of  wide  interests  for  the  women  of  the 
upper  classes  if  no  family  duties  are  given  them. 
They  seem  to  have  forgotten  Isabella's  day  when 
Dona  Lucia  de  Medrano  lectured  on  the  Latin 
classics  in  the  University  of  Salamanca,  and 
Dona  Francesca  de  Lebrija  filled  the  chair  of 
rhetoric  in  the  University  of  Alcala,  when  the 
Queen  read  her  New  Testament  in  Greek,  and 
her  youngest  daughter,  the  unfortunate  wife  of 
Henry  VIII,  won  the  admiration  of  Erasmus  by 
her  solid  acquirements.  To-day  the  idleness  en- 
forced by  fashion  leads  often  to  morbid  religi- 
osity or  to  moral  disaster.  Toward  the  end,  "  La 
Regenta  "  like  "  El  Escandalo  "  flags,  especially 
is  the  canon  De  Pas  a  failure.  Such  a  man  would 
have  been  either  a  great  saint  or  a  great  sinner, 
never  could  he  have  steered  the  mean  middle 


A  Few  Modern  Novels      343 

course  he  did.  In  this  book,  unlike  the  average 
romance,  is  much  of  the  trail  of  the  serpent  of 
Zola's  school,  more  the  result  of  a  too  warm  par- 
tisanship of  the  French  novelist  than  innate  in 
Alas. 

The  talented  Padre  Coloma,  author  of  "  Peque- 
neces,"  may  be  called,  like  the  professor  of 
Oviedo,  a  man  of  one  novel.  Born  in  Andalusia 
(1851),  a  literary  protege  of  Fernan  Caballero, 
he  led  the  life  of  a  man  of  the  world  till  about 
twenty-five,  when  a  violent  change  of  heart 
caused  him  to  enter  the  Jesuit  Order.  There  he 
has  passed  uneventful,  useful  years  of  study  and 
teaching.  His  book,  which  is  a  harsh  satire  on  the 
vices  of  the  sma,rt  set  of  Madrid,  made  an  imme- 
diate sensation.  I  cannot  say  I  find  the  Padre 
Coloma  a  great  writer  by  any  means,  he  is  too  un- 
equal; whole  chapters  drag  heavily.  But  some 
of  his  scenes  deserve  the  highest  praise,  such  as 
the  presentation  of  the  heroine  Currita  Albornoz, 
or  that  truly  noble  description  of  one  of  Spain's 
proud  usages,  the  twelve  grandees  of  the  first  rank 
presenting  themselves  before  their  new  monarch, 
the  young  Alfonso  XII,  on  his  return  in  1875, 
a  picture  that  rings  with  the  heroic  spirit  of  the 
past. 

We  turn  next  to  a  novelist  with  so  long  a  list  of 
books  to  her  credit  that  it  is  impossible  to  enumer- 
ate them,  the  Senora  Emilia  Pardo  Bazan  who 


344  Heroic  Spain 

has  been  called  the  most  notable  woman  of  letters 
in  Europe.  Her  salon  in  Madrid  is  one  of  the 
best  known  in  the  capital,  but  she  has  so  deeply 
associated  herself  with  her  native  province  (born 
in  Coruna  in  1851)  that  she  is  the  boast  of  every 
Gallego.  Mountain  lands  are  noted  for  the  loy- 
alty they  rouse  in  their  sons,  but  few  such  enthu- 
siasms equal  that  of  Dona  Emilia.  She  has  told 
of  the  lonely  hills,  the  chestnut  forests,  the  never- 
failing  streams  of  the  Norway  of  Spain,  and  made 
alive  the  ancient  usages,  and  the  crabbed  origi- 
nality of  the  peasantry.  "  Los  Pazos  de  Ulloa  " 
(pazos  is  dialect  for  palace)  and  its  sequel,  "  La 
Madre  Naturaleza,"  have  in  them  the  very  breath 
of  outdoor  life,  —  the  last  is  an  idyll  in  prose. 
She  describes  the  untrained  young  cura  leaving 
Santiago  to  step  into  the  unhappy  coil  of  events 
in  the  ruined  manor  house,  his  vain  efforts  to  help 
the  pathetic  young  wife  and  her  brutalized  hus- 
band. The  tragedy  is  carried  on  to  the  second 
generation,  and  we  see  the  two  children  growing 
up  in  solitude  and  desertion,  roaming  the  country- 
side day  and  night,  Perucho,  blue-eyed,  hand- 
some as  a  Greek  statue,  the  girl  Manolita  slender 
and  dark;  then  the  heart-breaking  misery  of  the 
end.  Work  such  as  this  is  exquisite  and  sure  to 
last.  Madam  Pardo  Bazan  edits  one  of  the  best 
reviews  in  Madrid,  and  she  has  written  many 
stories  that  treat  of  life  in  the  capital,  but,  like 


A  Few  Modern  Novels       345 

the  novels  of  Valdes,  they  might  have  been  writ- 
ten elsewhere,  in  Paris  or  St.  Petersburg.  It  is 
in  the  novels  of  her  loved  paisanos  she  will  live. 
English-speaking  people  probably  know  Pa- 
lacio  Valdes  better  than  any  other  Spanish  writer, 
for  his  novels,  of  the  regulation  Parisian  type, 
have  been  repeatedly  translated.  I  care  not  at  all 
for  the  Madrid  novels,  but  sometimes  in  a  dash- 
ing local  romance  he  carries  all  before  him:  such 
is  "  La  Hermana  de  San  Sulpicio,"  sal  salada, 
that  untranslatable  phrase  of  Andalusia  where 
sparkle  and  verve  are  considered  as  highly  as 
beauty  in  women.  The  story  is  facile,  witty, 
light  both  in  manner  and  matter,  full  of  laughter 
following  swift  on  tears,  like  its  sprightly  chat- 
terbox of  a  heroine,  an  alluring  creature  who  is 
sincere  underneath  the  sparkle.  Seville  and  the 
brilliant  summer  life  of  its  patios,  the  sky  rain- 
ing stars,  lovers  talking  all  night  at  the  reja  in 
the  scented  air,  —  no  one  would  tell  on  an 
enamorado,  the  very  men  drinking  in  a  tavern 
send  out  a  glass  to  the  patient  lover  to  wish  him 
good  luck.  The  friendly  equality  of  the  different 
classes  is  shown  again  here,  and  other  traits  not 
so  praiseworthy,  such  as  the  intensity  of  local 
antipathies,  the  Andalusian's  contempt  for  the 
Gallego,  the  Catalan's  for  the  Andalusian.  A 
Barcelona  business  man  grumbles  all  day  in  Se- 
ville: "  A  glass  of  cognac  30  c.  one  day  and  35  c. 


346  Heroic  Spain 

the  next  in  the  same  cafe.  Is  that  business  ? " 
Two  men  from  the  northern  mountains  meet: 
*  You  too  are  from  Asturias?  "  asks  one.  "  No, 
from  Galicia."  "  Then  you  are  not  mi  paisano," 
and  the  first  turns  away  in  disdain. 

While  the  mundain,  easy  stories  of  Palacio 
Valdes  are  translated  and  widely  read,  one  of 
the  first  of  Spanish  novelists  is  scarcely  known 
outside  his  own  country.  Don  Jose  Maria  de 
Pereda  was  born  in  1835  and  died  in  1906,  the 
year  following  Don  Juan  Valera's  death.  He  is 
a  true  son  of  the  Montana,  the  coast  country 
round  Santander,  whose  Picos  de  Europa  rise  to 
a  height  of  9000  feet,  and  he  has  described  his 
home  with  beautiful  realism  in  some  robust  and 
primitive  tales :  "  Escenas  Montanesas ;  "  El 
Sabor  de  la  Tierruca";  "  Sotileza,"  called  his 
best,  a  very  strong  picture  of  fisher  folk;  "  De 
tal  Palo  tal  Astillo,"  which,  like  Galdos'  "  Glo~ 
ria,"  is  greatly  spoiled  by  being  a  "  roman  a 
these";  "  Penas  Arriba,"  and  many  others. 
Pereda  is  a  champion  against  skepticism  and  the 
weakening  luxury  of  cities :  he  is  so  partial  to  his 
patria  chica  that  he  often  abuses  the  patience  of 
readers  by  his  too  free  use  of  its  dialect.  With 
him,  plot  and  action  are  of  slight  account,  for  his 
interest  lies  in  the  eternal  human  characters  and 
in  the  countryside  that  molded  them.  A  realist 
more  exact  than  Flaubert,  he  yet  fulfills  the 


A  Few  Modern  Novels       347 

prophecy  of  Huysmans  as  to  the  best  type  of 
novel  for  the  future:  *  The  truth  of  the  docu- 
ment, the  precision  of  detail,  the  condensed, 
nervous  language  of  realism  must  be  kept,  but 
it  must  be  clarified  with  soul,  and  mystery 
must  no  longer  be  explained  by  maladies  of 
the  senses.  The  romance  should  divide  itself 
into  two  parts,  welded  or  interbound  as  they  are 
in  life,  that  of  the  soul  and  that  of  body,  and  it 
should  treat  of  their  reaction,  of  their  conflicts, 
of  their  mutual  understandings."  M.  Rene 
Bazin  has  described  a  visit  to  Pereda  at 
Polanco,  his  beautiful  estate  near  Santander, 
where  he  led  a  life  of  cultured  retirement, 
proving  the  theory  which  his  books  preach, 
that  one's  native  home  is  the  best  paradise.  To 
the  French  visitor,  with  his  nation's  swiftness 
to  discern  high  distinction,  it  seemed  as  if  it 
were  Quixote  himself,  the  man  who  came  for- 
ward to  meet  him,  of  the  pure  hidalgo  type, 
long  face  and  aquiline  nose,  with  that  noble 
gesture  of  the  hand  that  said,  "  My  house  is 
yours." 

Of  Pereda's  books,  my  favorite  is  "  Penas 
Arriba,"  which  does  for  the  mountain  folk  what 
"  Sotileza  "  does  for  the  coast  life  of  the  Mon- 
tana. It  was  while  writing  this  that  there  fell  on 
him  the  heart-rending  blow  of  his  young  son's 
suicide,  and  a  cross  and  date  long  stood  in  the 


348  Heroic  Spain 

rough  draft  of  the  novel  to  mark  the  separation  of 
the  past  from  his  saddened  later  life:  only  by 
force  of  will  could  he  continue.  Much  of  himself 
shows  in  the  tale,  which  would  entice  a  Parisian 
himself  to  live  contentedly  on  a  mountain  side. 
There  is  a  scene,  the  death  of  the  squire  of  Tab- 
lanca,  which  indeed  proclaims  a  master  hand. 
Spain's  best  critic,  Don  Marcelino  Menendez  y 
Pelayo  (himself  from  Santander,  born  1856) 
writes  of  Pereda:  "For  me  and  all  born  de 
penas  al  mar,  these  books  are  felt  before  judged, 
they  are  something  of  our  mountain  land  like  the 
breezes  of  the  coast,  one  loves  the  author  as  one 
does  one's  family." 

Perhaps  it  is  not  fair  to  speak  of  a  writer  who 
is  not  a  romancist,  when  good  minor  talents 
among  the  novelists  have  to  be  passed  over,  but 
I  cannot  resist  ending  with  the  name  of  this  fa- 
mous scholar,  Menendez  y  Pelayo,1  who  may  be 
said  to  be  discovering  Spain  to  herself  after  her 
long  discouragement.  His  books  are  on  the  his- 
tory of  philosophy  and  literature:  "  Historia 
de  las  Ideas  Esteticas  en  Espana  ";  "  Horacio  en 
Espafia,"  being  graphic  pages  on  the  lyric  poets ; 
"  Critica  Literaria";  •  "  Ciencia  Espanola," 
"  Calderon  y  su  Teatro,"  and  others.  Faithful 
to  the  best  traditions  of  his  race,  he  is  boldly  as- 
serting her  past,  her  poets,  her  scientists,  her 

1  See  "  L'Espagne  Litteraire  "  by  Boris  de  Tannenberg  (Paris,  1903). 


A  Few  Modern  Novels       349 

mystics,  —  they  have  been  ignored  too  long;  he 
holds  that  the  peoples  of  the  mediodia  are  the 
civilizing  races  par  excellence.  All  the  warring 
factions  of  Spain  agree  that  here  is  a  man  of 
stupendous  talent.  "  Every  time  I  meet  him,  I 
find  him  with  a  new  language.  Never  have  I  met 
a  student  of  such  prodigious  erudition,"  wrote 
the  skeptic  Alas.  Menendez  y  Pelayo  may  be 
called  a  literary  phenomenon.  Before  twenty- 
five  he  had  ransacked  the  libraries  of  Spain,  Por- 
tugal, France,  Italy,  and  Belgium,  and  was  given 
a  professorship  in  the  University  of  Madrid. 
To-day  his  reputation  is  European  among  schol- 
ars. His  profound  knowledge  of  Greek,  Latin, 
and  Hebrew  literatures,  helps  a  swift,  unerring 
sense  to  preceive  the  best.  His  work  is  not  only 
that  of  a  scholar,  for  it  has  in  it  the  life-giving 
touch  of  imagination,  which  is  wisdom,  and  makes 
a  writer  a  classic. 

An  anecdote  that  has  the  ring  of  the  simplicity 
of  a  Cervantes  or  a  Valera,  the  self-effacing  of  a 
Luis  de  Leon,  is  told  of  the  young  scholar  of 
twenty-two.  When  spending  an  evening  with 
some  celebrated  men  where  wit  and  learning 
flowed  fast  and  copious,  he  poured  out  quotations 
so  erudite  and  spontaneous  that  in  modest  em- 
barrassment he  took  a  paper  from  his  pocket  as 
if  quoting  from  it.  At  the  end  of  the  evening  a 
friend  seized  on  the  magic  bit  of  paper,  to  find 


350  Heroic  Spain 

it  a  washerwoman's  bill.  Praise  cannot  hurt 
such  a  man.  When  a  race  can  produce  in  a  short 
fifty  years  a  Pereda,  a  Valera,  a  Menendez  y 
Pelayo,  have  we  the  right  to  call  it  spent  and  out 
of  the  running? 


ESTREMADURA 

"  I  have  always  felt  that  the  two  most  precious  things 
in  life  are  faith  and  love.  As  I  grow  older  I  think  so 
more  and  more.  Ambition  and  achievement  are  out  of 
the  running;  the  disappointments  are  many  and  the 
prizes  few,  and  by  the  time  they  are  attained  seem  small. 
The  whole  thing  is  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit  without 
faith  and  love.  I  have  come  to  see  that  cleverness,  suc- 
cess, attainment,  count  for  little ;  that  goodness,  '  char- 
acter,' is  the  important  factor  in  life." 

GEORGE  J.  ROMANES. 

LITERALLY  worn  out  with  the  noise  of  Seville's 
Holy  Week,  we  took  the  night  train,  that  chill, 
rainy  Good  Friday,  and  left  the  Andalusian  ex- 
citement behind.  As  carriages  are  forbidden  in 
the  city  on  both  Holy  Thursday  and  Good  Fri- 
day, we  had  expected  to  walk  to  the  station  — 
they  told  us  that  the  King,  the  year  before,  had 
walked  to  his  train  —  but  the  regulation  ceased 
at  sunset  on  Friday  and  we  were  able  to  drive. 

As  usual  we  had  the  Reservado  para  Senoras 
compartment  to  ourselves,  and  so  exhausted  were 
we  that  we  slept  heavily  with  only  an  occasional 
waking  to  look  out  on  the  cold  hills  we  were  cross- 
ing. There  was  a  moon  which  hurrying  black 


352  Heroic  Spain 

clouds  obscured  fitfully.  Under  the  somber  sky 
the  desolate  hills  seemed  like  the  fantastic  sepia 
drawing  of  a  Turner:  swift  unforgettable  mem- 
ories one  carries  away  from  night  journeys  in 
Spain. 

We  left  the  train  at  Merida,  now  a  poor  place 
with  some  few  thousand  inhabitants,  but  up  to 
the  fourth  century  a  splendid  Roman  city,  the 
capital  of  Lusitania.  The  castle  built  by  Ro- 
mans, Moors,  Knights  of  Santiago,  and  bishops; 
the  theater,  the  aqueduct,  the  bridge,  the  tri- 
umphal arch,  and  the  baths  show  what  it  once 
was.  We  could  not  have  visited  this  solitary 
province  at  a  happier  hour.  Field  flowers  made 
the  countryside  as  beautiful  for  the  moment  as 
Umbria  or  Devonshire;  the  wheat  fields,  al- 
ways so  articulate  and  lovely,  had  their  own 
charm  even  after  the  magnificent  outburst  of 
roses  and  orange  blossoms  a  month  earlier  in 
Seville. 

Merida  is  small,  —  frugal  and  neat,  as  are  the 
larger  number  of  Spanish  towns.  As  we  ex- 
plored it,  the  people  greeted  us  with  kindly 
f<  Vayan  Ustedes  con  Dios";  we  had  left  behind 
the  tourist-infested  south  with  its  insolent  city 
loafers.  It  seemed  too  good  to  believe  that  we 
had  come  again  among  the  grave,  dignified  Span- 
iards of  the  north.  In  order  not  to  miss  the  Holy 
Saturday  services,  I  hastened  to  the  Cathedral. 


Estremadura  353 

There  was  a  cracked  old  organ  and  the  singing 
was  little  better,  but  devout,  heart-moving  peas- 
ants rose  and  knelt,  up  and  down,  during  the 
long  Flectamus  Genua !  Levate !  ceremony  of  that 
day,  and  the  bells  burst  into  the  riotous  clamor 
they  seem  to  achieve  so  individually  all  over 
Spain.  It  may  have  been  ungrateful,  but  it  was 
without  the  slightest  regret  that  I  thought  of  the 
display  going  on  at  the  same  hour  in  Seville. 

We  had  taken  the  trip  into  Estremadura  to 
see  the  Roman  remains,  the  best  in  the  Penin- 
sula. The  ruins  are  more  fortunate  in  their  set- 
ting here  than  in  many  places,  for  there  are  none 
of  the  bustling  cafes  nor  electric  cars  of  Nimes 
or  Verona.  Paestum  is  more  poetic,  Baalbec  a 
hundred  times  more  grandiose,  but  Merida  on  a 
showery,  sunshiny  day  in  spring  is  an  ideal  spot 
for  musing  and  rambling.  In  the  city  itself  are 
some  ancient  remains,  such  as  a  temple  of  Mars, 
and  the  fluted  columns  of  a  temple  of  Diana  built 
into  a  mediaeval  house,  which,  by  the  way,  has 
a  lovely  Plateresque  window,  but  most  of  the 
ruins  lie  completely  outside  the  present  town. 
The  amphitheatre,  when  we  saw  it,  had  a  com- 
fortable troop  of  goats  asleep  in  the  warm  shelter 
of  its  oval,  and  the  remarkable  theatre,  known 
as  Las  Siete  Sillas,  from  the  seven  divisions  of 
its  upper  seats  that  crown  it  like  a  coronet,  was 
gay  with  poppies  and  buttercups,  —  the  national 


354  Heroic  Spain 

colors  gleamed  everywhere.  Swallows  in  cool, 
metallic,  blue-black  coats,  dipped  and  swept  in 
their  swift,  graceful  way.  Looking  out  on  the 
view  which  embraced  Merida  on  one  side  and  a 
line  of  rugged  hills  on  the  other,  we  lingered  for 
hours  in  that  Theatre  of  the  Seven  Seats.  Chil- 
dren, like  gentle  fawns,  one  by  one  crept  out  from 
the  town  suburbs  and  gathered  in  a  smiling, 
lovable  circle  round  the  strangers.  We  talked 
to  them  tranquilly,  our  map  of  their  city  seemed 
a  fascinating  wonder  to  them.  They  came  and 
went  smiling;  now  one  returned  to  the  town  to 
fetch  his  mother,  now  a  shy  little  girl  laid  an  arm- 
ful of  poppies  beside  us,  with  no  thought  of  pen- 
nies, but  just  out  of  primitive  human  kindliness. 
The  dear  Don's  age  of  gold  seemed  a  reality. 
And  a  day  before  we  had  angrily  scattered  those 
diabolical  little  pests,  the  street  children  of  Se- 
ville! Could  these  enchanting  little  people  be- 
long to  the  same  race,  and  live  only  a  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  away?  Journeys  in  unfrequented 
parts  of  Spain  give  one  a  truer  picture  than  is 
possible  for  the  hurried  tourist  on  the  beaten 
track;  every  time  we  turned  aside  into  the  un- 
spoiled country  we  met  the  people  and  ways 
which  Cervantes  has  described.  Never  were 
gentler  human  beings  than  those  little  girls  of 
Merida,  those  young  mothers,  those  big  half- 
awkward  lads,  whose  gazelle  eyes  would  gaze  at 


Copyright,  law,  by  Underwood  <fr  Underwood 

A  ROADSIDE  SCENE  IN  SPAIN 


Estremadura  355 

us  inquiringly,  then  turn  to  look  at  the  scene  we  so 
obviously  admired,  then  back  to  us  with  pleasure 
at  our  appreciation  of  what  they  too  held  most 
beautiful.  We  are  told  that  peasants  get  no 
aesthetic  pleasure  from  landscape,  but  I  am  sure 
romantic  Roman  ruins  and  perfect  spring-time 
weather  had  much  to  do  with  giving  those  chil- 
dren faces  of  such  pure  outline. 

Perhaps  later,  when  the  sun  scorches  the  first 
freshness,  Merida  may  be  a  desolate  enough  spot; 
we  probably  knew  her  best  hour,  the  lovely  April 
of  her  prime.  We  were  loath  to  tear  ourselves 
away;  we  read  to  our  interested  audience  ac- 
counts of  their  city's  past,  when  Emperors' 
armies  marched  along  the  Roman  road  that  led 
from  Cadiz  north,  and  alert  to  catch  the  meaning, 
they  listened  with  that  vividness  of  the  eye  that 
shows  the  imagination  is  roused.  Then  from  the 
daily  paper  we  read  to  them  that  in  Madrid  on 
Holy  Thursday,  two  days  before,  the  King  had 
washed  the  feet  of  a  dozen  poor  men,  kissed  them 
in  humility,  then  waited  on  them  at  table,  assisted 
by  the  grandees  of  Spain;  that  on  Good  Friday 
he  had  set  free  some  criminals.  When  the  bish- 
op's words  rang  through  the  church:  "  Senor, 
human  laws  condemn  these  men  to  death,"  Don 
Alfonso  answered  with  moved  voice:  "  I  pardon 
them,  and  may  God  pardon  me ! "  And  some- 
how, Alfonso  XIII  is  not  jarring  or  theatric 


356  Heroic  Spain 

among  such  ancient  usages  of  Spanish  Chris- 
tianity. Very  modern  with  his  automobile,  his 
polo,  his  careless  ease,  this  charming  king  is  one 
with  his  people  in  a  radical  sympathy  with  ways 
that  symbolize  soul  and  heart  emotions. 

Merida  has  a  bridge  built  by  the  Emperor 
Trajan.  And  it  has  ruins  of  a  very  stately 
aqueduct  standing  in  wheat  and  poppy  fields. 
This  is  built  of  stone  and  brick  ranged  in  regular 
lines,  and  though  only  about  a  hundred  feet  high, 
is  truly  majestic,  the  entrancing  touch  being 
given  by  the  hundreds  of  storks  who  have  built 
nests  on  the  top  of  the  arches.  Some  of  our  little 
friends  had  accompanied  us  through  the  fields 
to  the  aqueduct,  and  when  we  took  a  final  ramble 
through  the  town,  many  were  the  smiling  greet- 
ings, "  Buenos  Tar&es"  Merida  is  too  small  to 
have  visitors  pass  a  day  there  without  making 
friends  among  its  courteous  people. 

We  took  an  evening  train  on  to  Caceres  ten 
miles  away,  for  its  hotels  sounded  inviting;  and 
a  second  happy  day,  a  holy  and  tranquil  Do- 
mingo de  Resurrection,  gave  us  another  memory 
of  Estremadura.  Caceres  is  an  unspoiled  med- 
iaeval town  climbing  up  a  crag,  just  such  a 
place  as  Albrecht  Diirer  loved  to  paint.  It  is 
very  individual.  From  the  plaza  with  its  acacia 
trees  we  mounted  the  steep  grass-grown  streets, 
past  one  baronial  mansion  after  another,  with 


Estremadura  357 

old  escutcheoned  doorways  blazoned  with  plumed 
helmet  and  shield.  In  one  of  them,  the  house  of 
the  Golfines,  los  Reyes  Catolicos  stayed  on  a 
visit.  Nowhere  in  the  world  save  in  Spain  could 
such  a  bit  of  the  Middle  Ages  stand  untouched 
and  unnoticed,  giving  one  that  thrilling  sensation 
of  the  traveler,  the  meeting  unheralded  with  a 
very  rare  thing.  The  views  caught  between  the 
granite  mansions  were  lovely,  for  Caceres  lies  in 
the  most  cultivated  district  of  the  county.  Across 
the  river  rose  another  steep  crag,  turned  into  a 
Way  of  Calvary,  with  a  picturesque  church 
crowning  it. 

The  town  has  some  excellent  hotels,  and  we 
were  well-fed  and  slept  well  for  five  pesetas  a  day 
in  one  of  them.  Easter  Sunday  morning  I  awoke 
to  the  sound  of  bleating  animals,  and  looking 
out,  there  at  every  doorway  was  tied  a  tiny  white 
or  black  lamb,  with  a  bunch  of  soft  greens  to 
nibble  on.  It  is  the  custom  for  each  family  to 
have  this  symbol  of  peace  and  innocence  on  the 
Christian  Passover.  All  day  long  the  children 
played  with  them,  and  toward  evening  when  the 
toy-like  legs  trembled  with  fatigue,  the  little 
boys  carried  the  lambs  across  their  shoulders  as 
shepherds  do.  In  the  midst  of  patriarchal  ways, 
we  kept  congratulating  ourselves  that  we  had  es- 
caped the  noisy  city  to  the  south,  whose  Easter 
crowds  were  pouring  in  eager  excitement  to  the 


358  Heroic  Spain 

first  bull-fight  of  the  year;  it  was  the  thought 
of  the  scene  being  enacted  in  Seville  that  made  us 
a  little  unjust  to  the  city  where  so  happy  a  winter 
had  been  passed. 

After  Mass  in  a  gray  old  church  on  the  hill, 
a  procession  formed  to  carry  the  pasos  of  Ca- 
ceres.  Each  house  was  hung  with  the  national 
colors,  and  on  the  balconies  tall  men  of  the 
hidalgo  type  and  proud  Spanish  ladies  (Ma- 
drid has  not  drained  the  provincial  places  of 
their  leading  families)  knelt  respectfully  as  the 
cortege  passed.  The  statues  were  simple  and 
poor,  they  were  borne  by  pious  peasants,  and 
the  silent  crowd  dropped  to  its  knees  on  the 
pavement  with  a  prayer.  Not  a  tourist  was  there, 
save  two  who  felt  so  in  sympathy  with  old  Spain 
that  they  disclaimed  the  title.  To  think  that  the 
gorgeous  materialistic  pasos  of  Seville  had  once 
begun  in  this  way!  Easter  afternoon  made  as 
pastoral  a  memory  as  the  hours  in  Merida.  We 
walked  out  with  the  people  to  the  hill  of  the 
Stations  of  the  Cross.  Life  seemed  a  happy  and 
normal  thing  when  all,  old  and  young,  grandee 
and  peasant,  gave  courteous  greeting  to  those 
who  passed;  also  it  was  a  joy  to  hear  pure  Cas- 
tilian  after  the  somewhat  slovenly  Andalusian 
dialect. 

However,  the  week  in  Estremadura  was  not 
to  end  on  an  idyllic  note.  We  attempted  an 


Estremadura  359 

excursion  beyond  our  strength  and  got  well  pun- 
ished; the  moral  is,  avoid  all  diligence  journeys 
in  Spain,  they  are  only  for  those  who  have  the 
nerves  of  oxen.  The  real  reason  why  we  had 
come  into  this  little-visited  province  was  because 
that  old  emperor  born  in  Italica  near  Seville, 
Trajan,  the  bridge  builder,  had  in  the  year  A.  D. 
105  put  up  one  of  his  bridges  at  Alcantara,  a 
town  now  on  the  Portuguese  frontier.  Such  a 
reason  sounds  slightly  absurd,  but  many  who 
read  certain  descriptions  of  the  bridge  must  feel 
the  same  impulse  to  hunt  it  up.  Richard  Ford 
calls  it  one  of  the  wonders  of  Spain,  "  the  work 
of  men  when  there  were  giants  on  the  earth," 
worth  going  five  hundred  miles  out  of  one's  way 
to  see  as  it  rises  in  lonely  grandeur  two  hundred 
feet  above  the  Tagus  River.  So  it  no  doubt 
appeared  to  the  English  traveler  who  stumbled 
on  it  eighty  years  ago,  for  it  was  then  an  unre- 
stored,  picturesque  ruin,  probably  unused  since 
one  of  its  arches  had  been  blown  up  by  the  Eng- 
lish in  the  Peninsula  War.  At  any  rate,  it  was 
such  glowing  words  that  enticed  us  into  the  wil- 
derness of  Estremadura. 

It  is  strange  in  Spain  how  little  they  know 
of  districts  that  lie  at  no  appreciable  distance. 
At  the  inn  at  Caceres  we  asked  for  information 
about  Alcantara,  and  they  could  give  none.  The 
landlord  himself  came  over  to  our  table  to  look 


360  Heroic  Spain 

at  us  in  astonishment.  "  But  there  is  nothing 
to  see  there!  "  he  assured  us,  too  polite  to  ask  the 
question  that  showed  in  his  voice,  —  why  were 
two  ladies  seeking  a  dismal  spot  such  as  Alcan- 
tara? I  positively  blushed  as  I  answered  there 
was  a  bridge.  "  A  bridge!  "  He  beat  a  hasty 
retreat  to  his  wife  in  the  office,  where  their  merri- 
ment burst  out.  The  next  day  he  told  us,  that 
having  inquired,  he  found  we  could  take  the  train 
to  Arroyo,  an  hour  away,  whence  a  diligence  ran 
in  a  short  time  to  Alcantara.  We  left  the  train 
at  Arroyo,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  station 
found  the  smallest  diligence  ever  seen,  so  packed 
already  with  big  countrymen  that  we  could  just 
force  our  unwilling  selves  in.  When  we  were 
well  started,  we  found  to  our  consternation  that 
we  did  not  reach  Alcantara  before  ten  hours,  the 
distance  being  about  thirty  miles.  Una  Icgua 
una  hora  runs  the  saying,  and  this  part  of  the 
world  is  ruled  by  its  wise  old  proverbs.  Too  late 
to  turn  back,  we  tried  to  make  the  best  of  it. 
When  in  each  of  the  desolate  villages  long  pauses 
were  made,  we  got  out  to  visit  the  market  or 
church.  In  the  first  village  the  altar  was  dressed 
with  coarsest  but  freshest  linen.  Artistic  pewter, 
unconscious  of  its  charm,  held  the  water  and 
wine,  and  a  score  of  sturdy  young  peasants  came 
in  from  selling  in  the  plaza  outside,  knelt  on  the 
very  steps  of  the  altar,  then  having  made  their 


Estremadura  361 

serious  preparation,  each  bashfully  approached  a 
white-haired  priest  who  sat  there  all  market  day 
in  readiness  to  hear  confessions.  The  dismallest 
corner  of  Spain  has  compensations. 

The  first  ten  miles  of  the  journey  reminded 
me  of  New  England,  with  its  stone  walls  and 
semi-cultivated  land.  The  next  ten  miles  were 
indeed  the  proverbial  desolation  of  Estrema- 
dura; hardly  an  inhabitant  was  to  be  found  on 
those  bleak  hills.  We  had  stumbled  on  one  of  the 
three  days  of  the  yearly  fair  of  Brozas,  so  we 
passed  flocks  of  sheep,  cattle  with  a  royal  spread 
of  horns,  and  dozens  of  the  nervous  Andalusian 
horses.  Even  automobiles  went  by,  and  one  Por- 
tuguese noble  drove  abreast  three  truly  glorious 
cream- white  mules.  Seeing  them,  one  could 
understand  how  a  mule  here  can  cost  more  than 
a  horse.  The  fair  was  held  in  meadows  outside 
the  town,  and  it  looked  so  animated  that  we 
should  have  liked  to  stop,  but  no  time  was  given 
us.  A  mile  outside  Brozas  we  found  we  had 
to  change  from  the  tiny  diligence,  a  primitive 
enough  way  of  travel,  and  to  continue  the  re- 
maining miles  to  Alcantara  in  the  mail  cart, 
which  consisted  of  a  board  laid  across  two  wheels, 
and  that  one  seat  had  to  be  shared  with  the  driver. 
Fuming  did  no  good,  not  another  vehicle  would 
take  us.  The  cold  wind  howled  across  the  tree- 
less upland,  our  umbrellas  could  not  break  its 


362  Heroic  Spain 

biting  force,  and  we  were  far  too  thinly  clad  from 
the  warm  Seville  winter;  I  could  feel  the  chill 
seize  on  me  that  was  to  lead  to  a  month's  bad  ill- 
ness. The  final  touch  was  when  the  young  scamp 
who  drove  the  mail  cart  found  it  impossible  to 
forego  his  eternal  cigarette,  which,  despite  re- 
monstrance, he  smoked  continuously.  That 
evening  (we  had  left  Caceres  in  the  pitch  dark  at 
5  A.  M.)  we  were  set  down  at  an  inn  whose  spa- 
cious rooms  and  staircase  told  of  former  pros- 
perity, but  so  shrunken  was  its  hospitality  that  it 
could  offer  nothing  fit  to  eat;  yet,  curiously 
enough,  the  old  landlady  made  the  best  coffee  I 
have  tasted  in  Europe.  We  kept  her  busy  grind- 
ing and  boiling  it. 

Alcantara  is  one  of  the  most  God-forsaken 
places  in  the  world.  Pigs  walk  the  ill-kept 
streets,  and  the  vast  buildings  of  the  monkish- 
knights  who  formerly  guarded  the  frontier  pass 
are  crumbling  into  such  universal  ruin  that  the 
lanes  are  a  mass  of  broken  rubbish.  They  are  not 
romantic  ruins,  but  depressing  and  almost  terri- 
fying. When  we  climbed  down  the  precipitous 
hill  that  led  to  the  bridge,  our  shoes  were  cut  to 
pieces  by  the  flinty  stones. 

And  the  bridge,  that  lode-star  of  our  pilgrim- 
age, worth  going  five  hundred  miles  to  see!  We 
thought  with  exasperation  of  the  sixty  we  were 
wasting  on  it.  No  doubt  Trajan  did  build  it 


Estremadura  363 

eighteen  centuries  ago,  but  they  have  chipped  off 
the  beautiful  gray  toning  of  ages,  filled  in  with 
mortar  the  boulders  after  they  had  stood  unaided 
till  our  time,  and  made  a  modern  boulevard  from 
Portugal.  All  solitude  and  sublimity  are  well 
eliminated  from  the  scene.  We  sat  on  the 
benches  of  that  banal  little  park  and  glared  at  the 
disappointing  thing.  The  Tagus,  Lope  de  Ve- 
ga's hidalgo  Tajo,  was  here  a  low  stream,  yellow 
with  mud,  flowing  beneath  bleak,  unimposing 
hills.  The  bridge,  in  spite  of  its  two  hundred  feet 
of  height,  did  not  appear  as  high  as  the  aqueduct 
at  Merida,  an  effect  due  probably  to  the  arches 
standing  on  stilts.  And  it  may  sound  blatant, 
but  a  memory  of  once  passing  under  that  superb 
thing  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  at  dawn,  made  this 
ancient  monument  suffer  in  comparison.  The 
ludicrousness  of  our  having  traveled  out  of  our 
way  to  see  this  sight  struck  us  at  last,  and  when 
we  recalled  the  Caceres  landlord's  astonishment, 
and  that  of  Brazilian  friends  at  Seville  who  had 
tried  to  persuade  us  our  Estremadura  plan  was 
quite  mad,  we  too  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh,  soon 
sobered  at  the  prospect  of  the  next  day's  weary 
return  to  Arroyo.  We  climbed  back  to  the  inn 
and  dined  on  glasses  of  coffee. 

The  following  morning,  after  some  more 
glasses  of  our  only  modus  vivendi,  we  explored 
the  decayed  town.  In  it  is  a  pearl  of  architecture 


364  Heroic  Spain 

built  by  the  Benedictine  knights  in  1506,  the  now 
ruined  church  of  San  Benito,  with  lofty  slender 
piers,  one  of  the  most  gracefully  proportioned 
of  semi-Renaissance  things.  Truly  was  the  tran- 
sition from  Gothic  to  Renaissance  a  most  har- 
monious moment  in  Spanish  architecture.  This 
interesting  discovery  could  not  do  away  with  the 
fever  and  cold  of  the  awful  drive  back  to  Arroyo. 
Such  petty  miseries  are  best  passed  over.  More 
dead  than  alive,  late  the  second  night  we  reached 
again  the  comfortable  hotel  at  Caceres,  where 
we  were  glad  to  pause  a  few  days  to  pick  up 
strength  to  push  on. 

Our  plans  had  been  to  go  to  Trujillo,  the  birth- 
place of  Pizarro.  It  was  Estremadura  that  pro- 
duced many  of  the  rude,  energetic  conquistadores 
of  Peru  and  Mexico,  and  the  province  never  has 
recovered  from  that  drain  on  its  population. 
Just  as  the  number  of  Jewish  and  Moorish  exiles 
and  the  loss  to  their  country's  vitality  has  been 
exaggerated  for  partisan  reasons,  so  there  has 
been  an  underestimation  of  the  more  serious 
drain  which  Spain  suffered  when  hoards  of 
sturdy  adventurers  set  out  for  the  New  World. 
The  emigration  was  untimely;  it  came  a  century 
too  early.  The  country  had  just  been  brought 
from  political  chaos  to  law  and  order  by  Isa- 
bella's great  reign;  but  before  the  fruit  of  her 
planting  could  ripen  (by  peace  and  its  natural 


Estremadura  365 

sequence  of  settled  trade)  it  was  plucked  from 
the  bough.  I  have  never  been  able  to  see  that  the 
expulsion  of  two  hundred  thousand  Jews,  the 
execution  of  thirty-five  thousand  heretics,  and 
the  exile  of  under  a  million  Moriscoes,  are  suffi- 
cient causes  to  explain  Spain's  decay.  Other 
countries  of  Europe,  prosperous  to-day,  suffered 
from  evils  quite  as  bad.  Why  did  Segovia,  with 
an  "old  Christian"  population  independent  of 
Moorish  banishment,  have  thirty-five  thousand 
weavers  of  cloth  in  the  beginning  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  and  but  a  few  hundred  in  the  next 
generation?  A  score  of  questions  similar  to  this 
can  be  asked  to  which  the  hackneyed  explanation 
of  the  Inquisition  and  the  expulsion  of  the  Moors 
gives  no  answer. 

The  causes  of  Spain's  decay  must  be  sought 
farther  afield  than  in  single  acts  of  bad  govern- 
ment which  crippled  the  country  for  a  time  but 
were  not  irremediable.  Through  emigration,  just 
when  with  the  ending  of  the  seven  hundred  years' 
crusade  the  nation  should  have  turned  to  peaceful 
industries,  she  lost  her  agriculturists  and  her  pos- 
sible traders.  And  following  swift  on  this,  for 
emigration  does  not  permanently  weaken  a 
strong  race,  Spain  was  bled  of  her  best  blood  by 
Charles  Vs  senseless  European  wars.  She  prof- 
ited nothing  by  them,  in  fact  they  lowered  her  to 
the  position  of  a  mere  province  in  the  Empire. 


366  Heroic  Spain 

The  treasure  that  poured  in  from  the  New  World 
was  poured  out  over  Europe,  it  merely  passed 
through  Spain.  American  gold  was  a  curse  for 
her;  it  undermined  the  national  character;  the 
spirit  of  adventure,  not  of  patient  work,  was  fos- 
tered. The  policy  of  the  Emperor  was  continued 
by  his  descendants,  and  for  two  hundred  years 
more  Spain  was  at  war.  Anaemia  of  the  whole 
race  followed:  so  true  is  it  that  the  nation  of 
fighters  to-day  runs  the  risk  of  being  the  nation 
of  weaklings  to-morrow. 

Good  government  might  have  helped  the  ill, 
but  Charles  V  pursued  in  that  line  a  policy  as 
fatal  as  his  continental  wars.  He  tried  to  force 
on  these  subjects  whom  he  never  understood  an 
iron  autocratic  rule,  ruthlessly  crushing  their 
tenacious  spirit  of  independence.  The  death  of 
Ximenez  and  the  execution  of  the  Comuneros 
leaders  may  be  said  to  mark  the  ending  of  the 
sensible  old  regime  of  self-centering  her  re- 
sources, exclusive  and  provincial  perhaps,  but  it 
had  been  Spain's  salvation.  To  meet  the  ex- 
penses of  ceaseless  wars  in  Europe,  when  the  first 
influx  of  colonial  gold  ceased,  the  Peninsula  was 
heavily  taxed:  a  fourteen  per  cent  tariff  on  all 
commodities  will  soon  kill  trade.  For  the  same 
reason,  to  pay  for  wars,  the  currency  was  debased 
under  Philip  III;  and  the  Crown  held  monopo- 
lies on  spirits,  tobacco,  pottery,  glass,  cloth,  and 


Estremadura  367 

other  necessities,  a  system  always  bad  for  com- 
merce. The  agrarian  laws  were  neglected,  too 
much  land  was  in  pasturage,  which  tends  to  lower 
the  census,  and  too  vast  tracts  were  held  by  single 
nobles.  The  loss  of  population  went  on;  in  1649 
an  epidemic  carried  off  two  hundred  thousand 
people.  The  economic  discouragement  was  ag- 
gravated by  a  host  of  minor  reasons,  such  as  the 
insecurity  of  property  along  the  coast  from  Afri- 
can pirates;  a  too  generous  allowance  of  holi- 
days; the  prejudice  against  trading  inherited 
from  crusading  ancestors;  and  there  being  no 
alien  element  —  for  this  Moor  or  Jew  would  have 
served  —  to  give  the  spur  of  competition  which 
keeps  a  nation  in  health.  Hapsburg  and  Bour- 
bon misgovernment  and  wars  blighted  Spain  for 
three  centuries.  But  to-day  new  life  is  stirring  in 
her.  She  is  returning  to  Ximenez's  wise  rule  of 
not  scattering  but  of  concentrating  her  powers. 
Happily  those  unhealthy  growths,  the  colonies, 
are  lopped  off  at  last: 

"  Passed  into  peace  the  heavy  pride  of  Spain. 
Back  to  her  castled  hills  and  windy  moors ! " 

In  the  mountains,  not  far  from  Trujillo,  lay 
Yuste,  the  solitary  monastery  to  which  retired  that 
dominating  figure  of  his  age,  Charles  V,  who  was 
so  decidedly  interesting  as  a  man,  but  so  perni- 
cious as  a  ruler.  When  he  came  to  this  distant 


368  Heroic  Spain 

inheritance  he  could  scarcely  speak  the  Castilian 
tongue;  he  did  all  in  his  power  to  stifle  the  in- 
domitable character  of  the  race,  —  and  alas !  he 
succeeded  but  too  well  in  starting  her  downward 
course.  Yet  the  magical  something  in  the  soul 
of  Spain  vanquished  even  him,  as  it  had  imperme- 
ated  the  conquering  Roman,  the  Goth,  the  Israel- 
ite, and  the  Arab.  With  all  Europe  from  which 
to  choose,  Charles  came  back  voluntarily  to  the 
Peninsula,  to  its  most  untamed  province,  to  spend 
the  last  days  of  his  jaded  life. 

Reading  at  home  accounts  of  Yuste,  it  had 
been  easy  to  plan  a  trip  there,  and  to  Guadalupe, 
the  famous  monastery  which  also  lay  among  these 
hills;  but  one  diligence  drive  can  quench  all  fur- 
ther foolhardy  adventuring.  With  a  feeling  that 
illness  was  threatening,  and  it  was  wiser  to  get 
away  from  this  "  extrema  ora,"  we  again  took  the 
local  line  to  Arroyo,  and  there  gladly  boarded  the 
express  that  passed  through  from  Lisbon  to 
Madrid. 


ARAGON 

"  O  World  thou  chooseth  not  the  better  part! 
It  is  not  wisdom  to  be  only  wise 
And  on  the  inward  vision  close  the  eyes, 
But  it  is  wisdom  to  believe  the  heart. 
Columbus  found  a  world,  and  had  no  chart 
Save  one  that  faith  deciphered  in  the  skies, 
To  trust  the  soul's  invincible  surmise 
Was  all  his  science  and  his  only  art. 
Our  knowledge  is  a  torch  of  smoky  pine 
That  lights  the  pathway  but  one  step  ahead 
Across  a  void  of  mystery  and  dread. 
Bid,  then,  the  tender  light  of  faith  to  shine, 
By  which  alone  the  mortal  heart  is  led 
Unto  the  thinking  of  the  thought  divine." 

GEORGE  SANTAYANA. 

IF  it  is  one  of  the  coveted  sensations  of  a  traveler 
to  stumble  unexpectedly  on  some  rare  spot  that 
is  overlooked  and  unheralded,  as  was  our  experi- 
ence at  Caceres,  there  is  a  second  emotion  that  is 
close  to  it,  —  the  return  to  a  favorite  picture  gal- 
lery, especially  if  in  the  meantime  one  has  gone 
further  afield,  has  learned  to  know  other  schools, 
and  adjusted  ideas  by  comparison.  A  return  to 
the  Prado  can  give  this  coveted  sensation. 


370  Heroic  Spain 

The  winter  in  the  south  had  familiarized  us 
with  the  Spanish  painters;  Murillo  now  seemed 
more  than  a  sentimentalist,  had  he  painted  for 
different  patrons  he  had  been  a  decided  realist; 
Toledo  had  showed  that  El  Greco  was  to  be  taken 
seriously.  No  sooner  were  we  back  in  Madrid 
than  I  hurried  off  to  the  Museum,  and,  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  to  give  freshness  to 
the  impression,  walked  straight  to  the  Velasquez 
room.  In  the  autumn  the  last  look  had  been  for 
the  "  Surrender  of  Breda,"  and  to  that  unforget- 
able,  soul-stirring  picture  I  paid  my  first  return 
homage.  It  impressed  me  even  more  powerfully 
than  before.  Never  was  there  a  more  sensitively- 
rendered  expression  of  a  high-minded  soul  than 
that  of  the  Marquis  Spinola *  as  he  bends  to  meet 
his  enemy.  It  is  intangible  and  supreme,  only 
equalled  by  some  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  expres- 
sions. For  those  who  hold  enshrined  a  height  to 
which  man  can  rise,  the  face  of  this  Italian  gen- 
eral will  ever  be  a  stimulus;  he  would  appeal  to 
the  English  sense  of  honor,  the  chivalry  of  a  Nel- 
son ;  the  heart-history  of  such  a  man  could  be  told 
only  by  a  novelist  of  true  distinction,  such  as 

1  "Surely  chivalry  is  not  dead!"  exclaimed  Lieut.  R.  P.  Hobson 
when  describing  the  courteous  treatment  he,  as  prisoner,  had  received 
from  the  Spanish  officers:  "The  history  of  warfare  probably  contains  no 
instance  of  chivalry  on  the  part  of  captors  greater  than  that  of  those 
who  fired  on  the  'Merrimac.'"  The  gallant  American's  account  of  his 
feat  in  Santiago  harbor  proves  that  Spinola's  spirit  survives  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic. 


Aragon  371 

Feuillet ;  there  is  something  in  Spinola's  reserved 
tenderness  that  Loti  might  seize  in  words.  Velas- 
quez shows  us  a  man  of  the  world,  but  he  has  con- 
veyed as  only  genius  could  how  this  warrior  for 
Espana  la  heroica  kept  himself  unspotted  from 
the  world,  and  this  the  painter  could  convey,  be- 
cause he  himself  was  nobly  idealistic,  realist  of 
the  realists  though  he  was.  Not  only  in  her  mys- 
tics and  novelists  but  in  her  painters  and  sculp- 
tors, Spain  shows  this  union  of  the  real  with  the 
ideal. 

Hours  in  the  Velasquez  room  slip  by  unnoticed. 
The  portrait  of  the  sculptor  Montanes  was  of 
more  interest  now  that  we  had  seen  his  polychrome 
statues  in  Seville,  those  especially  memorable 
ones  of  St.  Ignatius  Loyola  and  St.  Francis  Bor- 
gia in  the  University  Church.  The  hidalgo  heads 
by  El  Greco,  the  flesh  tints,  alas,  turned  to  a 
deathly  green,  called  up  Professor  Domenech's 
words  on  the  grave  Spanish  gentlemen  in  their 
ruffs  — "  sad  with  the  nostalgia  for  a  higher 
world,  the  light  in  their  eyes  holds  memories  of  a 
fairer  age  that  will  not  return ;  images  of  the  last 
warrior  ascetics."  This  eccentric  artist  has  in  the 
Prado  a  striking  study  of  St.  Paul,  an  intensity 
in  his  face  on  the  verge  of  fanaticism,  a  true  Isra- 
elite, such  as  only  a  semi-oriental  like  El  Greco 
could  seize.  Another  picture  that  struck  me  with 
even  profounder  admiration  than  before  was 


37 2  Heroic  Spain 

Titian's  Charles  V  on  horseback.  And  again  I 
studied  long  the  portraits  of  the  pale  Philip  II, 
of  his  dainty  little  daughters,  his  sisters,  his  most 
lovely  mother,  and  that  pathetic  English  wife  of 
his.  Probably  no  northerner  can  see  fairly  both 
sides  of  Philip's  strange  character,  just  as  I  sup- 
pose no  Spaniard  can  judge  Elizabeth  Tudor  as 
does  an  Englishman.  Nevertheless,  there  is  a 
trait  in  Philip  that  all  can  admire  —  his  filial 
loyalty. 

We  could  have  lingered  in  Madrid  for  weeks 
just  for  this  gallery,  but  we  had  to  tear  ourselves 
away.  A  journey  south  to  Murcia  and  Valencia 
had  been  planned,  but  the  necessity  of  passing  a 
cold  night  on  the  train  made  us  decide  now 
against  it.  Those  two  provinces,  with  Navarre, 
are  the  gaps  of  our  tour  in  Spain:  health  and 
weather  will  change  the  firmest  of  plans.  We  left 
Madrid  for  Aragon,  pausing  in  a  couple  of  the 
Castilian  cities  to  the  east. 

In  the  capital  the  parks  had  been  bursting  into 
leaf,  but  it  was  still  chill  winter  outside  on  the 
plains.  Treeless  and  verdureless  Alcala,  the  city 
of  Ximenez  and  birthplace  of  Cervantes,  looked 
far  from  inviting.  When  we  left  the  train  at 
Guadalajara,  the  landscape  was  so  depressing 
that  its  Arab  name,  "  river  of  stones,"  seemed  dis- 
mally appropriate.  Again,  as  at  Segovia  in  the 
autumn,  a  wind  de  todos  los  demonios  was  blow- 


Aragon  373 

ing  over  the  land,  —  raging  would  be  the  more 
exact  word.  The  town  was  melancholy,  so  was 
the  weather,  and  we  had  a  distressing  personal 
experience.  When  the  diligence  set  us  down  at 
the  inn,  we  were  told  there  was  not  a  bed  to  be 
had  that  night  in  all  Guadalajara,  for  it  was  the 
election,  and  even  the  hotel  corrridors  would  be 
used ;  we  would  have  to  go  on  to  Sigiienza  by  the 
night  train.  The  wind  and  the  cold  made  the 
prospect  a  dismal  one;  early  spring  travel  in 
northern  Spain  is  not  a  bed  of  roses. 

We  went  out  to  explore  Guadalajara  and  its 
chief  lion,  the  Mendoza  palace,  built  by  the  Mse- 
cenas  family  of  the  Peninsula  whose  history  has 
been  called  the  history  of  Spain  for  four  hundred 
years,  so  prominent  were  they  as  statesmen, 
clerics,  and  writers.  The  palace  is  in  the  Mude- 
jar  style,  the  exterior  studded  with  projecting 
knobs;  the  inner  courtyard  is  coarsely  carved 
with  lions  and  scrolls,  capriciously  extravagant 
and  yet  within  bounds  enough  to  be  effective. 
The  Duke  del  Infantado  entertained  Francis  I 
here,  and  surely  the  French  king  with  memories 
of  Blois  and  the  chaster  styles  which  his  race  fol- 
lows, must  have  examined  with  curiosity  this 
very  different  architecture  of  his  neighbor,  the 
intense  individuality  of  whose  conceptions  could 
almost  silence  criticism.  The  Mendoza  palace 
is  now  a  school  for  the  orphans  of  officers,  and 


374  Heroic  Spain 

when  the  little  nun,  happy  and  fond  of  laughter 
as  the  cloistered  usually  are,  showed  us  about, 
we  saw  pleasant  circles  of  young  girls  sewing 
under  the  forgotten  gorgeousness  of  the  arte- 
sonado  ceilings. 

Then  at  midnight,  wind  howling  and  rain  pelt- 
ing, we  crossed  the  muddy  square  that  lay  be- 
tween the  Sigiienza  station  and  the  town's  most 
primitive  inn.  There  they  did  the  best  they  were 
able  for  us,  but  nothing  could  lessen  the  glacial 
damp  of  those  linen  sheets :  the  illness  begun  at 
Alcantara  went  on  increasing.  With  chattering 
teeth  and  beating  our  frozen  hands  together  to 
put  some  sensation  into  them,  we  realized  we 
were  back  again  on  the  truncated  mountain 
which  is  central  Spain,  thousands  of  feet  above 
the  roses  and  oranges  of  Seville. 

The  following  day  was  Sunday,  with  a  sacred 
concert  of  stringed  instruments  in  the  Cathe- 
dral, a  good  Gothic  church,  noticeably  rich  in 
sepulchers.  In  one  chapel  especially,  that  dedi- 
cated to  St.  Thomas  of  Canterbury  by  an  Eng- 
lish bishop  who  accompanied  Queen  Eleanor 
to  Spain,  when  you  stand  among  the  tombs  of 
those  warriors,  bishops,  and  knights  of  Santi- 
ago, you  feel  the  thrill  of  the  past.  Cardinal 
Mendoza,  "  Tertius  Rex,"  was  at  one  time  bishop 
of  this  Cathedral,  having  for  vicar-general  the 
priest  Ximenez:  Don  Quixote's  friend,  the  de- 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  SIGUENZA 


Aragon  375 

lightful  cura,  was  "  hombre  docto  graduado  en 
Siguenza." 

The  chill,  little  city  was  far  from  stimulating; 
at  another  time  it  may  appear  differently,  im- 
pressions are  so  dependent  on  weather  and  health. 
The  peasants  wrapped  in  their  blankets  had  a 
beggarly  aspect  after  the  dandy  majo  of  Anda- 
lusia. I  daresay  were  Seville  three  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea,  the  bolero  would  be  worn  less 
jauntily.  The  Cathedral  visited,  there  was  little 
to  detain  us,  so  we  bade  a  ready  farewell  to 
glacial  sheets  and  ice-crusted  water  pitchers  to 
continue  the  route  to  Aragon,  west  past  Medina- 
celi,  where  a  Roman  arch  stood  boldly  on  the 
edge  of  its  hill. 

The  semi-royal  family  of  Cerda,  Dukes  of 
Medinaceli,  has  possessions  all  over  the  country: 
forests  near  Avila,  the  Casa  de  Pilatos  in  Seville, 
lands  near  Cordova,  a  castle  at  Zafra,  and  vast 
tracts  in  Catalonia.  It  descends  from  Alfonso 
el  Sabio,  whose  eldest  son,  called  la  Cerda,  from 
a  tuft  of  hair  on  his  face,  was  married  to  a 
daughter  of  St.  Louis  of  France,  and  left  two 
infant  sons,  who  were  dispossessed  by  their  uncle, 
Sancho  el  Bravo.  For  generations  they  contin- 
ued to  put  forward  their  claims  on  every  fresh 
coronation. 

After  entering  Aragon  the  climate  grew 
warmer.  We  were  descending  gradually,  and 


376  Heroic  Spain 

soon  fruit  trees  in  blossom,  and  vineyards,  ap- 
peared among  the  broken,  irregular  hills.  Cala- 
tayud,  birthplace  of  the  Roman  poet  Martial, 
was  extremely  picturesque,  with  castle  and 
steeples.  The  long  hours  of  the  journey  were 
whiled  away  watching  the  Sunday  crowds  in  the 
stations,  many  of  the  men  and  women  in  the  as- 
tonishingly original  costume  of  the  province. 
By  the  time  we  had  reached  Saragossa  we  had 
descended  to  about  five  hundred  feet  altitude, 
and  it  was  pleasantly  warm. 

The  capital  of  Aragon  is  commonplace  in  ap- 
pearance, flat,  modern,  and  prosperous.  The 
noisy  electric  cars  and  the  bustling  streets  made 
it  an  abrupt  change  from  the  small  Castilian 
cities  just  left.  As  always,  our  first  walk  was  to 
the  Cathedral — Saragossa  has  two,  and  the  chap- 
ter lives  for  six  months  in  each  alternately.  The 
Seo  is  an  ancient  and  beautiful  structure,  the 
Filar  is  a  tawdry,  cold-hearted  object,  such  as 
the  eighteenth  century  knew  how  to  produce,  a 
mixture  of  the  styles  of  Herrera  and  Churri- 
guera.  It  is  a  pity  that  one  of  the  most  revered 
shrines  in  Spain  should  be  housed  in  such  vul- 
garity. Outside,  seen  from  the  bridge  over  the 
Ebro,  the  many  domes  of  different  sizes,  covered 
with  glazed  tiles  of  green,  yellow,  and  white, 
are  not  bad,  but  within  is  a  soul-distressing  mass 
of  plaster  walls,  and  ceilings  of  Sassoferrato- 


Aragon  377 

blue.  The  High  Altar,  however,  has  a  treasure, 
the  celebrated  alabaster  retablp  of  Damian 
Forment,  one  of  the  best  of  national  sculptors, 
who  worked  between  the  Gothic  and  Renais- 
sance periods,  and  who  was  helped  to  ease  of 
expression  by  Berruguete,  lately  returned  from 
Italy. 

The  holy  of  holies  of  this  new  Cathedral  is,  of 
course,  the  chapel  of  the  Pilar,  and  about  it  are 
always  gathered  devotional  crowds.  To  a  Span- 
iard it  is  naturally  a  sacred  spot,  associated  as  it 
is  with  his  earliest  memories;  there  is  not  a  hut 
in  all  Aragon  that  has  not  an  image  of  the  Pilar 
Madonna;  but  to  the  Catholic  of  another  land, 
who  never  heard  of  this  cult  till  coming  to  Spain, 
it  is  impossible  to  feel  the  same  devotion,  espe- 
cially when  it  is  surrounded  with  such  bad  taste. 
I  tried  to  arouse  imagination  by  recalling  what 
the  Pilar  had  meant  for  this  city  in  its  hours  of 
danger,  how  during  the  siege  of  1808  they  kept 
up  courage  by  exclaiming,  "  The  holy  V  IT  gen  del 
Pilar  is  still  with  us!  ":  one  of  the  witticisms  of 
the  siege  was : 

"  La  Virgen  del  Pilar  dice, 
Que  no  quiere  ser  francesa." 

Just  as  in  Andalusia  the  chief  ejaculation  is 
"  Ave  Maria  Purisima! "  and  in  the  mountains 
of  the  north,  "  Nuestra  Senora  de  Nieve! "  so  in 


378  Heroic  Spain 

Aragon,  "  Virgen  Mia  del  Pilar! "  springs  to 
the  lips  in  time  of  joy  or  trouble.  However, 
emotion  cannot  be  summoned  on  command,  and 
I  left  Saragossa  unmoved  by  her  special  shrine 
of  devotion.  Had  it  been  in  the  solemn  old  Ca- 
thedral, sympathy  had  come  more  readily.  The 
Seo,  like  most  Spanish  churches,  is  spoiled  out- 
side by  restoration,  but  within  it  is  not  unworthy 
of  the  coronations  and  councils  held  there.  Fer- 
dinand el  Catolico  was  baptized  at  its  font;  and 
near  the  altar  is  buried  the  heart  of  Velasquez's 
handsome  little  Don  Baltazar  Carlos,  who  died 
of  the  plague  at  seventeen.  The  church  is  high 
and  square,  like  a  hall;  it  is  rich  in  mediaeval 
tombs,  Moorish  ceilings,  pictures,  and  jewels. 
Some  truly  glorious  fourteenth  century  tapes- 
tries were  still  hanging  in  place  after  the  Easter 
festivals,  on  the  day  of  our  visit;  and  as  a  coun- 
cil was  to  be  held  in  the  church  on  the  following 
day,  a  row  of  gold  busts  of  saints,  Gothic  relic 
holders,  stood  on  the  altar.  The  sacristy  was  a 
treasure  house,  from  its  floor  of  Valencian  tiles 
to  its  vestments  heavy  with  real  pearls.  The 
enthusiasm  of  the  priest  who  showed  us  the  Cathe- 
dral told  of  the  personal  pride  most  of  his  coun- 
trymen feel  in  the  house  of  God;  again,  as  at 
Burgos,  I  felt  that  these  people  considered  their 
churches  as  much  their  abode  as  their  own  simple 
homes,  that  one  supplemented  the  other,  and 


Aragon  379 

hence  much  of  the  contentment  of  their  frugal 
lives.1 

We  were  stupid  enough  to  go  hunting  for  the 
leaning  tower  of  Saragossa,  not  knowing  that  it 
had  come  down  in  1893,  and  the  search  led  us 
through  the  narrow  streets  of  the  older  town, 
where  the  mansions  of  dull,  small  bricks,  as  a 
rule,  have  been  turned  into  stables  and  ware- 
houses, like  the  former  palaces  of  Barcelona. 
Outside  the  city,  flat  on  the  plain,  stands  what 
was  once  the  Moorish,  later  the  Christian,  palace, 
the  Aljuferia,  now  serving  as  barracks,  in  which 
are  embedded  a  few  good  remains,  such  as  a 
small  mosque  and  a  noble  hall  of  Isabella's  time, 
with  that  suggestive  date,  1492,  —  Granada  and 
America. 

On  our  first  arrival  at  the  hotel  in  Saragossa, 
they  had  informed  us  we  could  stay  but  a  few 
days,  as  the  centenary  celebration  of  May  2d, 
1808,  was  approaching,  and  every  hotel  room 
was  engaged.  The  town  so  hum-drum  to-day 
has  a  stirring  history  to  look  back  on.  In  mod- 
ern times  she  has  stood  a  siege  as  heroic  as  any 

1  "  In  Gerona  Cathedral  there  was  a  cat  who  would  stroll  about 
in  front  of  the  capiila  mayor  during  the  progress  of  Mass,  receiving 
the  caresses  of  the  passers-by.  It  would  be  a  serious  mistake  to 
see  here  any  indifference  to  religion,  on  the  contrary,  this  easy  familiar- 
ity with  sacred  things  is  simply  the  attitude  of  those  who  in 
Wordsworth's  phrase,  "  lie  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year,"  and  do 
not,  as  often  among  ourselves,  enter  a  church  once  a  week  to  prove  how 
severely  respectable,  for  the  example  of  others,  we  can  show  our- 
selves." 

"  The  Soul  of  Spain  "  —  HAVELOCK  ELLIS  (1908). 


380  Heroic  Spain 

in  the  Netherlands,  but  Spain  has  lacked  a  Mot- 
ley to  make  her  popular.  I  can  only  repeat, 
justice  has  never  been  done  to  the  outburst  of 
patriotism  which  began  in  Madrid  with  the  Dos 
de  Mayo,  1808.  Murat's  savage  slaughter  on 
that  May  day  made  the  whole  of  Spain  rise  in 
almost  simultaneous  defense,  to  the  astonish- 
ment and  admiration  of  Europe.  Saragossa 
chose  for  her  leader  against  the  invader  the  young 
Count  Palafox,  assisted  by  the  priest  Santiago 
Sas,  and  by  Tio  Jorge  ("  Uncle  George  ")  with 
two  peasant  lieutenants.  The  French  closed  in 
round  the  city,  but  the  victory  of  Bailen  in  the 
south  raised  this  first  siege. 

Then  in  December  of  1808  four  French  mar- 
shals with  twenty  thousand  men  again  sur- 
rounded Saragossa,  and  it  must  not  be  over- 
looked that,  built  on  the  plain,  she  had  slight 
natural  means  of  defense.  "  War  to  the  knife  " 
was  the  historic  answer  of  the  town  when  called 
on  to  surrender,  and  the  bones  of  over  forty 
thousand  citizens  at  the  end  of  the  siege  bore 
testimony  to  the  boast.  To  embarrass  the  enemy 
they  cut  down  the  olive  plantations  around  the 
city,  thus  destroying  with  unselfish  courage  the 
revenue  of  a  generation,  for  it  takes  some  twenty 
years  for  the  olive  tree  to  bear  fruit.  They  sacri- 
ficed all  personal  rights  to  private  property  by 
breaking  down  the  partitions  from  house  to  house 


Aragon  381 

till  every  block  was  turned  into  a  well-defended 
fortress.  Organized  by  the  intelligent  Countess 
of  Burita,  the  women  enrolled  themselves  in  com- 
panies to  serve  in  the  hospitals  and  to  carry  food 
and  ammunition  to  the  fighters;  a  girl  of  the 
people,  Ajustina  of  Aragon,  whom  Byron  im- 
mortalized as  the  Maid  of  Saragossa,  worked  the 
gun  of  an  artillery-man  through  a  fiery  assault. 
Ajustina  lived  for  fifty  years  after  her  famous 
day,  always  showing  the  same  vigorous  equi- 
librium of  character;  though  Ferdinand  VII  re- 
warded her  with  the  commission  of  an  officer, 
she  seldom  made  use  of  the  uniform  of  her  rank 
nor  let  adulation  change  the  humble  course  of 
her  life.  The  siege  lasted  up  to  the  end  of  Feb- 
ruary. In  the  beginning  of  that  month  the  daily 
deaths  were  five  hundred,  the  living  were  not 
able  to  bury  the  dead,  and  a  pest  soon  bred;  the 
atmosphere  was  such  that  the  slightest  wound 
gangrened.  Sir  John  Carr,  who  visited  Spain 
the  year  of  the  siege,  heard  detailed  accounts 
from  officers  who  had  taken  part  in  it:  "  The 
smoke  of  gunpowder  kept  the  city  in  twilight 
darkness,  horribly  illumined  by  the  fire  that 
issued  from  the  cannon  of  the  enemy.  In  the 
intervals  which  succeeded  these  discharges, 
women  and  children  were  beheld  in  the  street 
writhing  in  the  agonies  of  death,  yet  scarcely  a 
sigh  or  moan  was  heard.  Priests  were  seen,  as 


382  Heroic  Spain 

they  were  rushing  to  meet  the  foe,  to  kneel  by  the 
side  of  the  dying,  and  dropping  their  sabers,  to 
take  the  cross  from  their  bosoms  and  administer 
the  consolations  of  their  religion,  during  which 
they  exhibited  the  same  calmness  usually  dis- 
played in  the  chambers  of  sickness."  Even  after 
the  French  had  forced  an  entrance  into  the  city, 
there  continued  for  weeks  a  room  to  room  strug- 
gle: "  Each  house  has  to  be  taken  separately," 
Marshall  Lannes  wrote  to  Napoleon,  "  it  is  a 
war  that  horrifies."  "  At  length  the  city  demol- 
ished, the  inhabitants  worn  out  by  disease,  fight- 
ing and  famine,  the  besieged  were  obliged  with 
broken  hearts  to  surrender,  February  21,  1809, 
after  having  covered  themselves  with  glory  dur- 
ing one  of  the  most  memorable  sieges  in  the 
annals  of  war,  which  lasted  sixty-three  days." 
(Travels  in  Spain,  Sir  John  Carr  K.  C.) .  Truly 
can  the  testarudo  aragones  of  Iberian  blood 
boast  of  the  title  of  his  capital,  siempre  heroica! 
The  Aragonese  is  manly,  enduring,  and  stub- 
born; the  special  laws  of  this  independent  prov- 
ince, the  Fueros,  are  worth  close  study  from  those 
interested  in  the  gradual  steps  of  man's  self- 
government  ;  under  an  ostensible  monarchy  they 
gave  republican  institutions.  This  is  an  address 
to  the  King:  "  We,  who  count  for  as  much  as  you 
and  have  more  power  than  you,  we  elect  you  king 
in  order  that  you  may  guard  our  privileges  and 


Aragon  383 

liberties ;  and  not  otherwise."  Nice  language  for 
a  Hapsburg  or  a  Bourbon  to  hear!  Aragon  was 
united  early,  by  a  royal  marriage,  to  Catalonia, 
and  a  few  centuries  later  Ferdinand's  union  with 
Isabella  bound  both  provinces  to  Castile,  Ferdi- 
nand also  conquering  Navarre;  it  was  under  the 
first  of  the  Bourbon  kings,  Philip  V,  that  Aragon 
lost  her  treasured  Fueros. 

We  saw  nothing  of  the  neighboring  Navarre, 
and  I  cannot  say  we  saw  much  of  sturdy  Aragon, 
since  Saragossa  was  the  only  stopping-place,  but 
a  long  day  on  the  train  going  south  gave  us  a  fair 
idea  of  its  general  character.  And  constantly 
through  the  day  rose  the  remembrance  that  it 
was  here  in  this  kingdom  happened  the  delightful 
Duchess  adventure.  Never  has  the  scene  been 
equaled,  —  that  witty,  high-bred  lady  and  her- 
mano  Sancho  of  the  adorable  platitudes  and 
proverbs —  ("  Sesenta  mil  satanases  te  lleven  a 
ti  y  d  tus  refranes  "I  even  the  patient  Don  ex- 
claimed) —  brother  Sancho  quite  unembarrassed 
—  was  he  not  a  cristiano  vie  jo?  —  stooping  to 
kiss  her  dainty  hand. 

The  landscape  of  the  province  was  rather  deso- 
late, though  relieved  from  monotony  by  the  snow- 
covered  wall  of  the  Pyrenees  that  continued  un- 
broken in  the  distance  to  our  left.  The  Spanish 
side  of  the  great  range  of  mountains  is  abrupt  in 
comparison  with  the  French  slopes,  which  are  gay 


384  Heroic  Spain 

with  fashionable  spas,  and  fertile  with  slow, 
winding  rivers,  such  as  the  Garonne.  In  Spain 
the  rivers  descend  with  such  rapidity  that  they 
pour  away  their  life-giving  waters  in  prodigal 
spring  floods,  and  during  the  rest  of  the  year  the 
land  suffers  from  drought ;  there  is  a  saying  here 
that  it  is  easier  to  mix  mortar  with  wine  than  with 
water. 

It  happened  that  on  our  train  was  a  band  of 
young  soldiers  returning  to  their  homes  after  their 
military  service,  as  irrepressible  as  escaped  young 
colts.  Such  songs  and  merriment!  Such  family 
scenes  at  each  station!  Mothers  and  little  sisters, 
blushing  cousins  and  neighbors  had  flocked  down 
from  the  villages  on  the  Pyrenees  slopes  to  wel- 
come them.  A  touch  of  nature  makes  the  world 
akin;  we  found  ourselves  waving,  too,  as  the 
train  drew  away,  leaving  the  returned  lad  in  the 
midst  of  his  rejoicing  family.  At  the  fortress- 
crowned  town  of  Monzon  we  saw  the  last  of  our 
happy  fellow  travelers.  There  a  young  soldier 
led  his  comrades  to  be  presented  to  a  majestic 
old  man  with  a  plaid  shawl  flung  over  his  shoul- 
der like  a  toga,  and  the  son's  expression  of  pride 
in  the  noble  patriarch  was  a  thing  not  soon  for- 
gotten. In  Spain  few  journeys  lack  a  primary 
human  interest,  something  to  give  food  to  heart 
or  soul. 


MINOR  CITIES  OF  CATALONIA 

Romanesque  is  the  Trappist  of  architecture,  ...  on 
its  knees  in  the  dust,  singing  with  lowered  head  in  a 
plaintive  voice  the  psalms  of  penitence.  .  .  .  This  mys- 
tic Romanesque  suggests  the  idea  of  a  robust  faith,  a 
manly  patience,  a  piety  as  secure  as  its  walls.  It  is  the 
true  architecture  of  the  cloister.  .  .  .  There  is  fear  of 
sin  in  these  massive  vaults  and  fear  of  a  God  whose 
rigours  never  slackened  till  the  coming  of  the  Son. 
Gothic  on  the  contrary  is  less  fearful,  the  lowered  eyes 
are  lifted,  the  sepulchral  voices  grow  angelic.  .  .  .  Ro- 
manesque allegorizes  the  Old  Testament,  and  Gothic 
the  New.  —  J.-K.  HUYSMANS. 

IN  his  valuable  book  on  Spanish  churches,  Street 
is  justly  enthusiastic  over  the  form  that  Gothic 
architecture  took  in  the  province  of  Catalonia, 
and  especially  over  the  now  unused  Cathedral 
of  Lerida,  which  he  calls  the  finest  and  purest 
early-pointed  church  in  Europe.  It  was  such 
praise  that  induced  us  to  stop  over  in  the  dull, 
little  city,  crowned  by  the  hill  where  the  ancient 
Cathedral  stands.  Its  history  of  ten  sieges,  and 
Velasquez's  "  Philip  IV  on  horseback  entering 


386  Heroic  Spain 

Lerida  in  triumph,"  somehow  had  suggested  a 
grandiose  impression  that  is  far  from  lived  up 
to  by  the  modern  town. 

A  pause  of  three  hours  between  trains  seemed 
to  give  ample  time  to  see  the  Cathedral,  but  the 
scramble  into  which  the  visit  to  Lerida  degen- 
erated was  proof  that  no  limited  period  is  ample 
time  in  this  country  of  leisurely  ease.  Could  we 
have  gone  direct  to  the  citadel,  all  had  been  well, 
but  as  the  hill  is  now  a  fort,  with  the  old  church 
turned  into  a  dormitory  for  soldiers,  much  red 
tape  was  required  to  visit  it.  We  hurried  along 
the  interminable  crowded  street  that  stretches 
beside  the  river,  asking  right  and  left  for  the 
office  of  the  military  governor.  Wrongly  di- 
rected, we  burst  into  the  somnolent  quarters  of 
the  city  authorities  and  made  our  request  for  a 
permit.  With  a  slow  dignity  that  no  flurried 
haste  could  move,  the  provincial  governor  sent 
us  to  the  private  house  of  the  military  big-wig. 
There  a  precious  half  hour  went  by  in  the  draw- 
ing-room with  his  handsome  wife,  who  did  not 
seem  sorry  to  break  the  monotony  of  her  exile 
by  the  strangers'  visit.  In  came  the  genial  gov- 
ernor waving  the  permit  backward  and  forward 
for  the  ink  to  dry,  and  another  half  hour  of 
social  chatting  went  by,  the  very  ink  of  Spain 
being  gifted  with  dignified  slowness.  A  soldier 
was  put  at  our  disposal  to  serve  as  guide,  a 


Minor  Cities  of  Catalonia     387 

young  man  as  tranquil  as  his  superior,  for  we 
climbed  the  hill  at  a  snail's  pace,  and  once  in- 
side the  fort  were  stopped  here  and  there  by 
sentries  who,  letter  by  letter,  it  seemed  to  our 
impatience,  spelled  out  the  written  paper. 
When  finally  we  stood  before  the  Cathedral,  the 
soldier  escort  told  us  we  must  pause  there  while 
he  went  to  seek  the  commandant  of  the  fort. 
Precious  minute  after  minute  went  by,  till  at 
last,  the  clock  telling  us  we  must  soon  be  start- 
ing back  to  the  station,  we  took  the  bull  by  the 
horns  and  entered  the  church  without  further 
delay. 

A  strange  spectacle  presented  itself.  In 
every  direction  were  ranged  cots,  clothes  hung 
about  and  washing  troughs  added  to  the  con- 
fusion. The  beautiful  old  church  had  been 
floored  half  way  up  its  piers  and  down  these 
improvised  rooms  we  could  see  other  rows  of 
narrow  beds.  It  was  so  cluttered  that  I  could 
hardly  get  oriented;  where  was  the  nave? 
which  were  the  transepts?  We  could  see  that 
the  capitols  of  the  pillars  were  grandly  carved, 
that  here  was  the  beautiful  clearness  of  form, 
the  noble  solidity  of  early  Gothic,  but  the  con- 
fusion of  the  soldiers'  dormitory  made  it  im- 
possible to  study  the  church  with  any  satisfac- 
tion. Except  for  the  architect,  Lerida  to-day 
hardly  repays  a  visit.  The  soldiers  stood  round 


388  Heroic  Spain 

in  astonishment  at  such  unexpected  visitors,  so 
we  were  soon  glad  to  confine  our  examination 
to  the  exterior  portals  and  the  tower. 

Just  as  we  were  on  the  point  of  leaving,  the 
commandant  appeared,  shook  us  warmly  by  the 
hand  and  prepared  to  take  us  over  the  fort.  Like 
the  military  governor  and  his  wife,  he  beamed 
with  the  interest  of  something  new;  the  cordi- 
ality of  all  was  perfect,  but  nothing,  nothing, 
could  hurry  them.  We  explained  that  we  had 
come  to  see  the  church  alone,  that  our  time  un- 
fortunately was  limited,  and  we  must  now  leave 
to  catch  the  train  for  Poblet.  He  took  a  disap- 
pointed and  bewildered  farewell;  up  on  his  cit- 
adel in  the  land  of  pause  and  leisure  such  new- 
world  notions  of  speed  were  disconcerting. 
With  a  hasty  look  at  the  noblest  early-pointed 
church  in  Europe,  a  grateful  handshake  to  the 
colonel,  we  hurried  down  the  precipitous  hill  and 
jumped  on  the  train  just  as  it  was  moving  out, 
our  valises  being  flung  in  to  us  desperately  at  the 
final  moment. 

Soon  the  broken,  fertile  hills  of  the  province 
of  Catalonia  closed  in  around  us,  and  the  coun- 
try grew  so  charming  that  we  were  glad  to  have 
planned  to  pass  a  night  near  Poblet.  From  the 
train  we  saw  the  prominent  brown  mass  of  the 
monastery  buildings,  but,  of  course,  we  ran  on 
some  miles  before  stopping  in  a  station.  There 


Minor  Cities  of  Catalonia      389 

we  found  a  Catalan  cart,  two-wheeled  with  a 
barrel  vaulted  awning,  and  drove  to  the  primi- 
tive hotel  at  Espluga.  The  landlord  offered  us 
his  cart  to  drive  out  to  Poblet,  two  miles  away, 
but  the  bumps  and  ruts  of  the  road  from  the 
station  made  us  prefer  to  walk.  The  ill-kept 
roads  and  the  not  wholly  cultivated  fields  told 
clearly  that  the  industrial  monks  were  no  longer 
masters  of  the  valley. 

Poblet  stood  for  monastic  pride,  only  nobles 
entered  as  monks,  the  mitered  abbot  was  a  count- 
palatine  and  ruled  the  peasantry  as  their  feudal 
lord;  the  revenues  were  enormous,  but  as  Bene- 
dictines are  invariably  cultivated  men,  they  were 
spent  on  ancient  manuscripts,  and  in  the  cease- 
less energy  of  building.  When  the  mob  came 
from  the  neighboring  towns  in  1835  to  sack  the 
convent,  they  shattered  the  very  treasure  they 
sought.  In  their  blind  ignorance  they  did  not 
know  that  chiseled  alabaster,  wrought  doors  and 
windows,  and  carven  cloisters,  represented  the 
hidden  gold  they  were  seeking.  This  uprising 
in  Spain  against  the  monasteries,  the  <e  pecado 
de  sangre"  was  a  political  more  than  a  religious 
affair;  in  the  first  Carlist  war,  the  countryside 
here  was  Constitutional,  while  the  monks  of 
Poblet  were  firm  for  the  Pretender  Don  Carlos. 
The  havoc  the  mob  wrought  is  heart-rending; 
and  yet  though  empty  and  partly  destroyed, 


39°  Heroic  Spain 

Poblet  is  still  one  of  the  finest  things  in  the 
Peninsula. 

On  our  way  out  to  it  we  happened  to  take  a 
wrong  turning,  which  fortunately  led  us  to  en- 
circle the  walled-in  mass  of  buildings  before 
entering,  and  gave  us  some  idea  of  their  great 
extent.  It  was  a  veritable  town ;  there  were  hos- 
pices for  visitors,  hospitals,  a  king's  palace,  an 
abbot's  palace,  a  village  of  workshops  for  the  ar- 
tisans, since  in  every  age  the  monks  had  been 
builders.  Every  style  was  represented,  each 
stage  of  Romanesque  and  Gothic;  Poblet  is  in- 
deed to-day  one  of  the  best  places  in  Europe  to 
study  architecture,  and  the  guardian  told  us  that 
students  from  every  country  flock  here  in  the 
summer  time.  Artists  too  are  a  familiar  sight 
sketching  the  beautiful  vistas,  the  arched  library, 
the  pillared  sola  capitular  where  effigies  of  the 
abbots  lie  so  haughtily  that  one  can  almost  un- 
derstand the  fury  of  the  rabble,  the  imposing 
length  and  strength  of  the  novices'  dormitory 
where  swallows  now  flit,  the  pure  early  Gothic 
of  King  Martin's  palace,  the  odd  little  glorieta 
of  the  chief  cloister.  Pleasant  quarters  can  be 
found  in  the  caretaker's  house,  which  is  more 
convenient  than  living  at  Espluga  down  the  val- 
ley. We  wandered  for  hours  through  court- 
yards and  cloisters  that  show  the  subtly  simple 
proportions  of  Catalan  art.  The  church  of 


Minor  Cities  of  Catalonia     391 

the  monastery  was  built  during  that  rare  mo- 
ment when  Romanesque  turned  to  pointed  work; 
it  is  very  narrow  and  severe  and  impressive.  The 
once  superb  alabaster  retablo  is  mutilated,  and 
the  tombs  of  the  Aragonese  kings  .are  scattered. 
The  bones  of  Jaime  el  Conquistador  are  now  in 
Tarragona  Cathedral.  Poblet  served  as  the 
Escorial  of  the  rulers  of  Aragon  and  Catalonia, 
and  is  many  times  more  worth  visiting  than  Philip 
II's  rigid  pile  in  Castile.  I  strongly  urge 
everyone  who  goes  to  Spain  to  turn  aside  from 
the  beaten  path  to  see  this  unrivaled  Cistercian 
monastery,  which  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say 
is  one  of  the  most  artistic  groups  of  buildings  in 
the  world.  The  evening  of  our  visit  the  sunset 
glorified  the  pretty  rural  valley  whose  brooks 
bounded  merrily  down  the  hillside.  "  Laugh 
of  the  mountain,  lyre  of  bird  and  tree,"  Lope  de 
Vega  calls  the  gurgling,  clear  waters. 

We  took  a  long  hour  to  loiter  back  to  Es- 
pluga,  accompanied  by  a  racy  old  character, 
Sabina,  and  her  tourist  donkey.  The  peasants 
returning  from  cutting  wood  up  in  the  moun- 
tains above  us  gave  a  new  greeting,  "Santas 
Noches"  reminiscent,  no  doubt,  of  the  former 
masters  of  the  valley. 

Then  the  following  day  we  took  the  train 
south  of  Tarragona,  to  the  "  Little  Rome  "  that 
is  the  reputed  birthplace  of  Pontius  Pilate,  of 


392  Heroic  Spain 

which  Martial  sang,  and  where  Agustus  Csesar 
wintered.  The  landscape  was  a  delight,  showing 
the  most  unrivaled  cultivation  of  soil  I  have 
ever  seen,  flowering  orchards,  fields  of  wheat  and 
poppies,  the  very  vineyards  that  Pliny  has  de- 
scribed; the  sensation  of  the  earth's  lavish 
bounty,  of  the  fecundity  of  the  sun  and  the  in- 
toxication of  growing  things  was  overwhelming. 
And  a  week  before  we  had  been  freezing  in 
Sigiienza ! 

On  the  train  was  an  amusing  company. 
Some  dozen  people  came  to  one  of  the  stations 
en  route  to  escort  an  alert,  keen-eyed  little 
bishop,  who  mounted  nimbly  among  us.  Every- 
one bent  to  kiss  his  episcopal  ring,  and  even 
when  some  shrewd  business  men  entered  the  car- 
riage later,  and  saw  that  a  bishop  was  its  oc- 
cupant, they  too  knelt  to  kiss  his  hand  in  saluta- 
tion, republican  Catalans  though  they  were.  I 
could  not  take  my  eyes  off  the  delightful  little 
prelate,  so  happily  unconscious  of  his  purple 
satin  skull  cap  with  its  St.  Patrick's  green  ro- 
sette on  top,  and  his  equally  vivid  green  woolen 
gloves.  Then  when  we  reached  Tarragona, 
down  he  stepped  briskly,  and  instead  of  entering 
an  episcopal  carriage  as  we  expected,  he  got 
into  a  public  diligence  and  drove  off  like  a  true 
democratic  Spaniard. 

The  Mediterranean  at   Tarragona  was   bril- 


Minor  Cities  of  Catalonia      393 

liantly,  startlingly  blue.  As  it  burst  on  us  in  its 
sun  dazzling  wonder  it  seemed  as  if  the  bleak 
high  table-land  of  the  country  behind  was  a 
nightmare  of  the  imagination.  Surely  a  whole 
continent  must  separate  such  luxury  and  such 
aridness. 

We  wandered  about  the  white,  glaring  city, 
glad  to  bask  in  warm  sun  and  drink  in  the  salt 
air,  happy  too  to  be  back  again  by  the  inland 
sea  that  has  known  the  great  nations  of  the 
earth,  to  be  part  again  of  the  marvelous  belt  of 
ancient  civilization  that  encircles  its  blue  water. 
Tarragona  was  surrounded  by  cyclopean  walls, 
the  huge  boulders  of  Rome  below,  and  the 
smaller  mediaeval  stones  above.  The  blinding 
sun  made  the  Cathedral  so  dark  that  it  was  long 
before  we  could  see  our  way  about.  It  is  solemn 
and  very  earnest,  with  a  fortress-like  apse,  and 
with  cloisters  the  most  perfect  in  the  country. 
The  doorways  and  capitols  are  so  curiously  carved 
that  they  merit  detail  study.  The  Roman  urns, 
a  Moorish  prayer  niche,  and  so  on,  down  through 
the  centuries,  showed  again  how  clearly  archi- 
tecture in  Spain  tells  her  history.  The  chief 
retdblo  is  of  extreme  beauty,  with  large  statues 
and  smaller  scenes  combined  harmoniously;  in 
it  the  restraint  that  distinguishes  the  Catalan 
school  is  very  apparent. 

On  leaving  Tarragona,  the  railway  followed 


394  Heroic  Spain 

the  coast  for  some  time,  then  to  our  disappoint- 
ment branched  inland  to  loop  round  to  Barce- 
lona. When  we  realized  that  we  could  have 
taken  the  line  that  runs  the  whole  way  by  the 
sea,  we  were  annoyed  at  our  mistake,  though 
later  we  were  grateful  to  it,  for  the  inland  route 
gave  a  noble  view  of  Montserrat,  that  astonish- 
ing serrated  ridge  of  gray  rock,  a  cragged  comb 
of  stone,  geologically  a  puzzle  of  formation, 
which  abruptly  rises  out  of  the  plain.  For  an 
hour  the  train  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  it,  so 
we  got  an  admirable  view.  Our  proposed  ascent 
of  the  mountain  was  never  to  take  place,  and 
this  was  to  be  our  only  glimpse  of  the  shrine  to 
which  thousands  of  pilgrims  flock  each  year, 
where  St.  Ignatius  Loyola  sought  counsel  and 
made  his  vigil  of  the  armor.  When  Barcelona 
was  reached  the  illness  which  had  been  fastening 
itself  closer  since  the  unfortunate  drive  to  Al- 
cantara declared  itself  unmistakably,  and  many 
proposed  excursions,  such  as  Montserrat,  Man- 
resa,  Ripoll,  with  its  unique  portal,  had  to  be 
foregone.  To  leave  a  country  with  some  of  its 
best  things  unvisited  is  an  open  invitation  to 
return,  —  which  theory  may  be  good  philosophy, 
but  is  not  wholly  adequate  in  stifling  regrets. 


BARCELONA 

"  He  who  loves  not,  lives  not." 

RAMON  LULL. 

"  Solemn  the  lift  of  high-embowered  roof, 
The  clustered  stems  that  spread  in  boughs  disleaved, 
Through  which  the  organ  blew  a  dream  of  storm 
That  shut  the  heart  up  in  tranquillity." 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

I  WONDER  if,  to  the  reader,  when  hearing  the 
name  Barcelona  there  rises  one  sovereign  pic- 
ture,—  Isabella  and  Ferdinand's  reception  of 
Columbus  on  his  return  from  the  New  World. 
It  may  have  been  some  print  seen  in  childhood 
that  impressed  itself  indelibly  on  my  imagina- 
tion, but  always  with  the  name  Barcelona  I 
seemed  to  see  los  Reyes  Catolicos  seated  on  their 
throne  listening  to  the  man  whose  genius  was  so 
well  bodied  forth  in  his  face  and  bearing. 
Around  stood  gentle-eyed  natives  of  the  An- 
tilles, with  their  ornaments  of  pearls  and  gold, 
lures  that  were  to  rouse  the  rapacity  which  ex- 
terminated those  Arcadian  peoples,  and  to  break 
the  heart  of  their  great  discoverer.  Heart-break 
and  defeat  lay  in  the  future,  this  was  an  hour  of 
enthusiastic  hope.  When  Columbus  had  fin- 
ished his  peroration,  the  Queen  and  the  court  fell 


396  Heroic  Spain 

on  their  knees  in  a  spontaneous  burst  of  exalta- 
tion, and  together  intoned  that  king's  hymn  of 
victory,  the  Te  Deum. 

It  was  the  unknown  Barcelona  that  called  up 
this  scene  of  Spain's  heroic  hour;  the  city  as  it 
is  to-day  has  blurred  and  dimmed  the  picture. 
There  is  a  striking  statue  of  Columbus  on  a 
column  that  faces  the  harbor,  but  it  is  not  of 
him  nor  of  his  patrons  that  you  think  here.  The 
Castle  of  Segovia,  the  walls  of  Avila  or  Toledo, 
the  Alhambra  hill,  Seville's  Alcazar,  these  are 
romantic  spots  that  make 

"  the  high  past  appear 
Affably  real  and  near, 
For  all  its  grandiose  air  caught  from  the 
mien  of  kings  " ; 

but  I  defy  the  imaginative  lover  of  old  times  to 
call  up  the  romantic  in  the  modern  capital  of 
Catalonia;  seething  with  industrial  life,  with 
revolutionary  new  ideas,  she  is  too  agressive  and 
prosperous  for  sentimental  regrets. 

Barcelona's  position  as  an  industrial  force 
cannot  be  called  unexpected.  She  has  ever 
been  in  the  stir  of  big  events,  Italy's  rival  in 
commerce  through  the  Middle  Ages,  when  she 
served  as  the  port  of  entry  and  exit  for  the  ar- 
mies and  fleets.  In  all  times  she  has  enjoyed  a 
climate  that  may  well  be  the  despair  of  commer- 


Barcelona  397 

cial  cities  of  the  north;  the  summer  heats  are 
tempered  by  sea-breezes,  the  winters  are  warmer 
than  at  Naples.  Hearing  reports  of  roses  in 
bloom  there  in  January,  we  had  dreaded  the  heat 
of  a  May  in  the  city,  but  during  the  five  weeks  of 
our  stay,  the  bracing  spring  air  was  like  that  of 
New  England.  Her  natural  setting,  too,  is  good ; 
the  harbor  guarded  by  the  lofty  fort  of  Mon- 
juich,  while  behind  stretch  mountains  which  lay 
far  from  the  mediaeval  town,  but  to-day,  when 
Barcelona  covers  an  area  twelve  times  as  large, 
they  are  immediate  suburbs  and  their  names  are 
familiar  signs  on  the  tramcars. 

The  province  of  Catalonia  is  perhaps  the  most 
individual  of  the  thirteen  strikingly  different 
provinces  of  the  Peninsula.  The  Catalan  is 
more  Spanish  than  French  certainly,  but  he  is 
always  more  Catalan  than  Spanish.  Indepen- 
dent, self-interested,  intractable,  strong-headed 
as  an  Aragonese,  industrious,  successful,  in  him 
is  found  slight  trace  of  the  hidalgo  of  Castile.  It 
is  hard  to  believe  that  this  hive  of  born  business 
men  is  in  a  land  whose  ideal  of  happiness  is  to  do 
nothing.  The  idleness,  the  high-bred  courtesy  of 
the  Castilian,  are  as  unfamiliar  here  as  in  the 
Stock  Exchange  of  New  York;  indeed  Barce- 
lona, with  her  streets  filled  with  well-dressed, 
briskly-moving  crowds,  each  intent  on  his  own 
business,  is  more  allied  to  the  new  world  than 


39 8  Heroic  Spain 

to  the  old.  Adieu,  indeed,  to  the  toga-like  capes, 
to  mantillas,  to  midnight  serenades.  A  Catalan 
has  no  time  to  waste  chatting  by  alluring  rejas. 
Catalonia  has  been  called  the  Lancashire  of 
Spain,  and  Barcelona  its  Manchester.  If  the 
comparison  is  fit  in  regard  to  commercial  suc- 
cess, it  is  inappropriate  in  one  respect,  for,  built 
by  a  Latin  race,  to  whom  is  natural  a  sense  of 
beauty,  Barcelona,  though  as  keen  after  money 
as  the  English  town,  has  cared  better  for  her  in- 
terests. The  sunlight  is  not  darkened  by  the 
miles  of  factory  chimneys  that  so  oppress  the 
heart  in  the  black  country.  There  are  hundreds 
of  belching  chimneys,  but  they  are  kept  out  of 
sight  in  the  valleys  behind,  where  each  factory 
stands  isolated  in  the  fields,  often  in  a  planted 
enclosure:  this  leaves  the  city  proper  free  of 
traffic,  smoke,  and  the  whirr  of  machinery.  The 
gay  Rambla  is  edged  with  shops,  and  handsome 
apartment  houses  line  the  tree-planted  avenues. 
Few  towns  have  the  force  of  will  and  continued 
patience  to  build  themselves  symmetrically;  they 
are  generally  the  result  of  haphazard,  and  only 
when  too  late  the  possibility  of  some  river  or 
sea  front  is  discerned.  Barcelona  realized  some 
fifty  years  ago  that  she  was  to  be  one  of  the  con- 
glomerations that  modern  cities  tend  to  become, 
so  she  called  on  her  engineers  for  plans,  and 
from  one  of  those  submitted  she  chose  an  able 


Barcelona  399 

design ;  Ensanche,  extension,  is  the  name  for  the 
new  districts.  Of  course  if  a  whole  city  con- 
sisted of  these  wide,  regular  streets,  it  would  be 
monotonous,  but  here  was  already  enough  of 
narrow-lane  picturesqueness  to  satisfy  the  artist. 
The  walls  that  encircle  the  congested  older  town 
were  pulled  down,  the  opened  space  was  turned 
into  an  esplanade,  and  radiating  from  this 
nucleus,  streets  two  hundred  feet  wide  were  laid 
and  were  immediately  planted  with  double  rows 
of  plane  trees.  To-day  the  vistas  down  these 
far-stretching  avenues,  the  sunlight  filtering 
through  the  leaves  on  groups  of  nurses  and 
children,  the  rapidly-moving  crowds,  the  smart 
two-wheeled  Catalan  carts,  the  whirling  auto- 
mobiles, give  the  city  an  air  of  joyous  prosperity. 
Behind  the  big  apartment  houses,  the  law  re- 
quires a  planted  space  to  be  kept  open,  so  that 
people  of  very  mediocre  income  live  in  houses  and 
in  districts  that  only  the  rich  of  other  towns  can 
command. 

The  material  success  of  the  people  has  found 
an  outlet  in  their  architecture:  Poblet,  school 
for  the  builder,  is  not  far  away.  Since  some  of 
the  houses  were  put  up  during  the  exaggerated 
phase  of  Vart  nouveau,  they  are  overloaded  with 
whirling  ornament,  quite  as  bad  as  Karlsruhe, 
but  the  majority  are  in  dignified  good  taste: 
take,  for  instance,  the  new  University  buildings, 


40 o  Heroic  Spain 

or  that  brown  stone  block  near  the  beginning  of 
the  beautiful  Paseo  Garcia,  Nos.  2  and  4,  if  I 
remember  rightly.  The  sculptors  too  have  in- 
herited the  skill  of  the  early  masters  of  Cata- 
lonia. Most  of  the  modern  churches  (not  Senor 
Gaudi's  curious  experiment,  the  Church  of  the 
Holy  Family!)  are  built  consistently  in  one  style, 
the  walls  carved  in  situ  as  in  old  times ;  the  effect 
is  such  that  one  prays  the  days  of  painted  plaster 
may  never  return.  It  was  good  to  notice,  too, 
that  the  new  churches  discarded  the  tinsel-decked 
altars  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  bane  of 
Peninsula  shrines.  Barcelona  builds  as  a  rule 
in  the  Catalan  manner;  the  early  architects  of 
the  province,  though  influenced  by  Lombard 
and  French  masters,  may  be  said  to  have 
achieved  a  national  style.  It  is  worthy  of  en- 
thusiasm with  its  singular  purity  of  line,  a  pro- 
portion that  is  hardly  Spanish.  Like  Chartres, 
it  has  "  the  distinguished  slenderness  of  an  eternal 
adolescence."  In  nothing  is  it  akin  to  Isabella's 
efflorescent  Plateresque-Gothic.  Its  clustered 
piers,  and  arches  carried  high  aloft,  have  been 
used  as  successfully  in  civil  as  in  religious  archi- 
tecture, witness  the  Lonja,  or  Exchange. 

The  new  town,  with  its  prosperous  homes  and 
shady  avenues,  tended  to  make  us  overlook  old 
Barcelona,  yet  we  only  had  to  step  aside  from 
the  thronged  Rambla  and  we  found  ourselves  in 


Barcelona  40 1 

dark,  narrow  streets,    that    at    dusk    especially 
made  us  shiver    with    apprehension.      Forcibly 
they  warned  us  that  this  was  one  of  the  most  tur- 
bulent cities  in  Europe,  where  lawless  socialists 
gather  and  plot,  where  some  recent  bomb-throw- 
ing outrages  were  the  reason  for  groups  of  the 
Guardias  Civiles  on  every  corner.  The  red  gorro, 
the  Phrygian  cap  worn    by    the    city    porters, 
seemed  too  realistic  when  met    in    dark    lanes, 
where  the  men  pushed  rudely  by,  your  sex  here 
no  prerogative.     With  Philistine  relief  we  used 
to  return  to  the  sanitary,  orderly  avenues  of  the 
Ensanchef  patrolled  by  placid  policemen  in  crim- 
son broadcloth  coats.    A  word  of  praise  must  be 
given  to  some  of  the  municipal  institutions  of 
Barcelona,  such  as  the  corps  of  city  porters,  each 
with  a  small  district  in  which  to  render  help. 
The  hotpiciOj  or  work-house,  is  considered  one 
of  the  best  organized  in  Europe.    As  long  ago 
as  1786  an  English  traveler,  the  Rev.  Joseph 
Townsend,  wrote  of  another  of  Barcelona's  in- 
stitutions :    "  No  hospital  that  I  have  seen  upon 
the  continent  is  so  well  administered  as  the  gen- 
eral hospital  of  this  city.    It  is  peculiar  in  its  at- 
tention to  convalescents,  for  whom  a  separate 
habitation  is  provided,  that  after  they  are  dis- 
missed from  the  sick  wards  they  may  have  time 
to  recover  their  strength."     Also  her  excellent 
city  police  are  worthy  of  praise.     The  rest  of 


402  Heroic  Spain 

Spain  could  emulate  them,  for  it  was  our  ex- 
perience that  the  local  police  were  an  incom- 
petent set;  we  soon  learned  never  to  apply  to 
them  in  case  of  difficulty,  but  to  wait  till  an  alert 
Civil  Guard 1  passed,  when  we  were  sure  of  in- 
telligent help. 

It  is  the  old  town,  congested  and  gloomy 
though  it  is,  that,  set  side  by  side  with  the  new, 

1  An  idea  of  Spain's  romance  of  soul  can  be  gathered  from  the  rules 
and  regulations  of  her  national  police,  the  Civil  Guard,  who  may  be 
called  the  descendants  of  Isabella's  Santa  Hermandad. 

"  1.  Honour  must  be  the  chief  motive  for  the  Civil  Guard,  to  be 
preserved  intact  and  without  a  flaw.  Once  gone,  honour  can  never 
be  regained. 

"...  3.  The  force  must  be  an  example  to  the  country  of  neat- 
ness, order,  bearing,  good  morals  and  spotless  honour.  .  .  . 

"  8.  The  Civil  Guard  ought  to  be  regarded  as  the  protector  of  the 
afflicted,  inspiring  confidence  when  seen  approaching.  .  .  .  For 
the  Civil  Guard  must  freely  give  his  life  for  the  good  of  any 
sufferer. 

"...  9.  Whenever  a  member  of  the  Civil  Guard  has  the  good 
fortune  to  render  a  service  to  anyone,  he  must  never  accept,  if 
offered,  a  reward,  bearing  in  mind  that  he  has  done  nothing  but 
his  simple  duty. 

"...  27.  The  Civil  Guard  will  refrain  with  the  greatest  scru- 
pulousness from  drawing  near  to  listen  to  any  knot  of  people  in 
street,  shop,  or  private  house,  for  this  would  be  an  act  of  espionage, 
altogether  outside  the  office  and  beneath  the  dignity  of  any  member 
of  the  force." 

That  such  rules  have  molded  her  exemplary  constabulary,  no  one 
will  deny  who  has  traveled  much  in  Spam.  They  are  loved  and  respected 
by  the  people;  witness  this  popular  song: 

"  Atenta  a  la  vida  humana 
Siempre  la  Guardia  Civil  .  .  . 
Y  por  eso  en  todas  partes 
Benediciones  la  acompanan, 
For  eso  Dios  la  protege 
Cuando  al  peligro  se  lanza, 
For  eso  la  canto  yo 
Con  el  corazon  y  el  alma: 
Viva  la  Guardia  Civil 
Porque  es  la  gloria  de  Espana!  " 


Barcelona  403 

makes  Barcelona  unique.  There  are  to  be  found 
primitive  churches,  such  as  Santa  Ana,  or  San 
Pablo  del  Campo,1  once,  like  St.  Martin-in-the- 
Fields,  placed  among  meadows ;  dim  old  churches 
similar  in  design,  Byzantine  cross  form  with  a 
low  dome  over  the  center  and  with  cloisters  that 
make  solemn  oases  of  repose  in  the  busy  city.  A 
later  period  built  churches  whose  somber  walls 
tower  high  above  the  crowded  houses;  such  are 
Santa  Maria  del  Pino  and  Santa  Maria  del 
Mar,  characterized  by  wide  hall-like  naves.  In 
the  width  of  their  nave  lay  the  triumph  of  the 
Catalan  masters.  It  was  in  the  last  named 
church  that  a  pious  woman  of  the  town  noticed 
one  day  a  gray,  emaciated  man  resting,  among  a 
group  of  children,  on  the  steps  of  the  altar,  in  his 
face  a  light  of  convincing  holiness.  Fresh  from 
the  spiritual  battle  in  the  Cave  of  Manresa,  a 
grand  self-mastery  the  reward  of  his  struggle,  no 
wonder  the  face  of  Ignatius  compelled  the  rev- 
erence of  the  passer  by. 

The  Cathedral  of  Barcelona  is  a  typically  Cat- 
alan-Gothic church.  For  an  eglesia  mayor  it  is 
small,  but  so  true  are  its  proportions  and  so 
skillfully  is  it  lighted  that  it  gives  the  effect  of 
grandeur.  As  the  clearstory  windows  are  mere 

1  This  most  beautiful  church,  dating  before  the  Crusades,  one  of  the 
most  ancient,  with  the  Asturian  churches,  Santa  Maria  de  Naranco 
and  San  Miguel  de  Lino,  in  all  the  Peninsula,  was  totally  destroyed  by 
the  socialist  mob,  in  the  riots  of  July,  1909. 


404  Heroic  Spain 

circles,  on  first  entering  one  is  in  complete  dark- 
ness, but  gradually  out  of  the  gloom  looms  that 
loveliest  feature  of  the  building,  the  chancel, 
lighted  by  rare  old  glass,  with  slender  piers  and 
lofty  stilted  arches  rising  from  pavement  to  vault- 
ing in  an  unforgettable  beauty  of  symmetry.  The 
retablo  of  the  High  Altar  is  in  character,  artic- 
ulate and  graceful,  unlike  the  usual,  overladen 
reredos  of  Spain.  Incense,  prayer,  soaring  aspi- 
ration, the  symbolization  of  this  presbytery  is  a 
perfect  thing:  again  vividly  came  the  conviction 
that  temples  such  as  these  have  had  and  ever  will 
have  a  vital  influence  on  a  race. 

Barcelona  may  be  a  shrewd  commercial  center, 
that  in  its  material  pride,  in  order  not  to  be 
classed  with  the  improvident,  brutally  repudiates 
most  of  the  cosas  de  Espana;  she  may  print 
books  whose  every  word  is  an  insult  to  govern- 
ment and  religion;  she  is  still  deeply  Spanish 
in  the  earnest  piety  of  the  larger  proportion  of 
her  citizens.  A  Catalan  may  tell  you,  especially 
if  you  belong  to  a  northern  race  and  a  different 
creed,  that  what  you  see  is  all  form,  lip-religion, 
that  the  men  here,  like  intelligent  men  the  world 
over,  are  free-thinkers.  It  is  an  easy  matter  for 
the  prejudiced  visitor  to  get  all  his  misconcep- 
tions confirmed  by  a  native,  no  one  is  more  bitter 
in  abuse  of  his  country  than  a  Catalan.  For- 
tunately, one  has  one's  own  eyes  wherewith  to 


Barcelona  405 

see.  But  first  I  must  quote  from  a  recent  letter 
to  the  London  Times  from  the  Rev.  James  R. 
Youlden,  in  answer  to  a  pessimist  on  the  re- 
ligious condition  of  Spain: 

"  In  the  city  of  Barcelona,  the  largest,  most  modern 
and  most  industrial  of  Spanish  cities,  the  good  attend- 
ance at  Mass,  not  only  of  women  and  children  but  of 
the  men,  is  most  remarkable,  as  is  also  the  number  of 
communicants.  I  have  myself  often  given  Holy  Com- 
munion on  a  Sunday  morning  in  the  church  of  San 
Pedro  to  such  large  numbers,  fully  one-third  of  them 
men,  that  my  arms  have  ached  in  conveying  the  sacred 
particles.  Masses  are  celebrated  every  hour,  and  in 
some  churches  every  half  hour  from  5  A.  M  to  12  midday 
in  all  the  twenty-four  parish  churches  of  the  city  (to  say 
nothing  of  numerous  convent  chapels)  in  the  presence 
of  large  and  often  crowded  congregations.  A  visit  to 
the  church  at  any  time  from  8  till  12  on  any  Sunday 
morning  would  dispel  some  of  the  illusions  of  your 
Madrid  correspondent." 

A  good  test  of  the  sincerity  of  religious  con- 
viction is  what  it  costs  the  purse;  new  churches, 
like  those  of  Barcelona,  are  not  built  by  lip-re- 
ligion. I  spent  several  Sunday  mornings  sitting 
on  one  of  the  side  benches  of  the  Cathedral, 
learning  that  the  Catalan,  disunited  from  his 
mother  land  on  many  points,  is  ineradicably 
national  in  his  creed.  This  was  Spain,  with  the 
grave  reverence  of  the  smallest  child,  where  the 


40 6  Heroic  Spain 

church  is  a  loved  home,  a  frequented  refuge  for 
meditation  and  strengthening  prayer.  Now  a 
handsome  and  satisfied  matron  enters,  followed 
by  five  or  six  children,  the  boys  dressed  as  Eng- 
lish sailors,  little  Battenbergs,  the  girls  with  hats 
like  flower  gardens;  they  cluster  round  their 
mother  at  the  door,  and  she  passes  each  the 
blessed  water  with  which  to  sign  themselves.  Be- 
hind this  group  come  some  alert  young  artisans ; 
each  instantly  drops  on  both  knees  to  make  his 
salutation  to  the  Altar  —  lip-religion  does  not 
care  to  disarray  its  Sunday  suit  like  this  —  and 
each  blesses  himself  in  the  swift  national  way, 
with  the  final  carrying  to  the  lips  of  the  thumb 
and  first  finger  crossed,  a  symbol  of  fidelity  to 
his  faith.  May  this  custom  never  die  out  in 
Spain!  From  the  first  hour  of  her  eight  hun- 
dred years'  crusade,  from  Cavadonga  to  Gra- 
nada, her  religion  has  been  her  glory,  interwoven 
with  her  nationality,  like  that  of  the  Jews  of  old, 
and  if  she  understands  her  enduring  interests, 
this  Christian  faith  to  which  she  has  clung  so  loy- 
ally will  be  her  aspiration  in  the  future.  When 
her  men  pass  the  High  Altar  without  salute, 
when  the  street  children  cease  to  run  in  daily  to 
kneel  before  a  shrine,  throwing  their  scanty 
skirts  over  their  heads  if  a  handkerchief  is  lack- 
ing, when  politics  and  religion  are  synonymous, 
that  day  Spain  may  be  called  degenerate,  but 


Barcelona  407 

not  now,  while  lamps  of  sincere  conviction  burn 
before  her  altars. 

Ascension  Thursday  fell  on  a  perfect  day  in 
late  May,  the  warm  sunshine  tempered  by  a  sea 
breeze;  everyone  was  out  gallantly  in  new  sum- 
mer suits.  The  houses  were  hung  with  the 
national  flag,  but  the  fairest  decoration  of  the 
city  were  the  hundreds  of  First  Communicants 
who  thronged  the  streets,  accompanied  by  proud 
mothers  and  relatives.  Each  little  girl  in  her 
quaint,  long,  white  skirt,  tulle  veil  and  wreath  of 
flowers,  carried  a  new  pearl  chaplet  or  prayer 
book,  and  each  boy  wore  a  bow  of  white  satin  on 
his  left  arm.  Few  things  are  more  appealing 
than  an  innocent-eyed  child  on  this  solemn  day, 
and  in  after  years,  for  those  who  have  known 
such  hours  of  purity,  few  memories  are  more  in- 
delible. As  I  passed  through  the  old  city,  its 
dark  streets  lightened  by  these  groups,  I  could 
not  help  exclaiming,  "  Why,  when  she  can  pre- 
sent a  scene  of  such  loveliness  and  hope,  must 
Barcelona  so  blindly  envy  her  neighbor  across 
the  Pyrenees!  "  Not  long  after  leaving  Spain,  I 
stopped  in  a  village  in  the  mountains  of  Dau- 
phiny,  half  Catholic,  half  Huguenot.  Both 
churches  were  practically  empty.  The  children 
of  the  town,  except  those  of  a  few  stanch 
families,  walked  in  a  public  procession  to 
honor  the  mayor,  behind  a  banner  bearing  the 


40 8  Heroic  Spain 

inscription,  "  Ni  Dieu,  ni  maitre."  One  cannot 
deny  there  are  many  in  Barcelona  whose  as- 
piration would  be  satisfied  with  a  similar 
procession  in  her  streets,  but  the  majority 
still  prefer  an  Ascension  Thursday  of  First 
Communicants. 

Before  the  west  door  of  the  Cathedral  are  re- 
mains of  ancient  houses  which,  like  Italy,  bear 
the  signs  of  guilds,  for  this  city  always  differed 
from  the  rest  of  Spain  in  looking  on  trade  as  an 
honorable  career.  A  street  behind  the  Cathe- 
dral leads  to  other  specimens  of  domestic  archi- 
tecture. Be  sure  not  to  be  discouraged  by  the 
cold  Herrara  front  of  the  House  of  the  Depu- 
tation. It  masks  a  Gothic  building  which,  if 
properly  restored,  as  well  as  the  Casa  Consis- 
torial,  or  Town  Hall,  which  stands  opposite  to 
it,  would  make  of  this  formal  plaza  one  of  the 
most  interesting  squares  in  Europe.  The  city's 
renewed  pride  in  the  Gothic  of  its  province,  her 
skillful  architects,  her  wealth,  should  tempt  her 
to  the  task.  Be  sure  to  go  into  both  these  build- 
ings. In  the  Town  Hall  are  some  lovely  ajimez 
windows  that  show  the  restraint  of  the  Catalan 
style:  they  attenuated  the  features  as  far  as 
strength  would  allow,  but  they  knew  just  where 
to  stop.  The  result  is  grace,  lightness,  a  subtle 
something  of  proportion.  In  the  Deputation 
House  hangs  the  Catalan  painter  Fortuny's 


Barcelona  409 

"  Battle  of  Tetuan,"  unfinished,  with  a  dashing 
rainbow-hued  charge  of  horsemen  that  stirs  the 
memory  of  Spain's  grand  forays  into  Africa. 

In  exploring  Barcelona  one  notices  unfamiliar 
names  on  the  shops,  here  are  no  longer  Alvarez, 
Gonzalez,  Perez,  Garcia,  but  strange  Catalan 
names,  such  as  Bosch,  Cla,  Puig,  Catafalch, 
Llordachs,  Petz.  On  every  side,  in  shops,  in  the 
tramcars,  one  hears  the  dialect  spoken,  rather 
rough  sounding  and  wholly  unintelligible  to  the 
traveler  who  knows  only  Castilian.  In  no  other 
of  Spain's  provinces  is  so  much  made  of  local 
differences.  The  names  of  the  streets  are 
written  twice  on  the  street  corners,  in  Catalan 
and  in  Castilian,  a  ridiculous  arrangement,  for 
in  these  proper  names  the  differences  are  slight; 
as  Calle  de  Cortes,  and  Correr  de  les  Corts.  To 
appease  his  thirst  for  self-assertion,  the  practical 
Catalan  has  marked  his  streets  in  a  less  adequate 
way  than  the  rest  of  the  Peninsula  he  looks  down 
on:  the  clearness  of  the  street  directions,  each 
tile  generally  holding  one  bold  letter,  had  been 
a  satisfaction  all  over  Spain.  This  brings  me 
into  hot  water  at  once,  the  vexed  ever  palpitating 
Catalan  question.  Is  this  province,  Spain's 
richest  and  most  progressive,  to  continue  under 
the  Spanish  crown,  to  ally  herself  with  France, 
or  to  be  independent?  She  tells  us  in  anger,  she 
pays  more  than  her  share  of  the  taxes,  that  she 


4i o  Heroic  Spain 

is  an  isolated  commercial  and  industrial  force  in 
a  nation  that  is  preeminently  agricultural,  whose 
laws  are  made  to  foster  the  farmer  at  the  expense 
of  the  trader :  the  loss  of  the  colonies  was  an  ad- 
vantage for  the  rest  of  the  country  whose  crying- 
need  is  population,  but  for  Barcelona  it  was  a 
severe  blow.  Spain  has  hard  problems  to  solve, 
with  thirteen  inhabitants  to  the  square  mile  in 
some  provinces  and  one  hundred  and  eight  to 
the  mile  here  in  Catalonia. 

Books  of  open  sedition  are  freely  published, 
one  picks  them  up  in  the  waiting-room  of  a  doc- 
tor's office,  in  the  bank,  on  the  stalls.  This  is  no 
new  phase.  From  early  times  Catalonia  has  only 
considered  her  own  interests,  now  joining  with 
France  against  Spain,  now  changing  sides,  as 
she  thought  to  benefit  herself;  for  her  the  nation 
is  a  secondary  consideration.  History  proves 
she  has  been  ineradicably  selfish;  hence  her  suc- 
cess, a  sophist  may  say,  but  there  is  something 
higher  than  self-aggrandizement,  the  success  of 
giving  her  strength  to  reforming  the  abuses  she 
proclaims.  No  one  denies  there  is  crying  need 
for  political  and  financial  reform  at  Madrid, 
though  it  is  not  to  be  brought  about  by  such  a 
book  as  Senor  Pompeo  Gener's  "  Cosas  de  Es- 
pana,"  which  but  widens  the  breach.  One  dis- 
cerns it  in  the  ignoble  jealousy  of  the  Castilian, 
which  rankles  in  the  Catalan  mind;  for  instance 


Barcelona  411 

in  speaking  of  Castilian  literature  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  he  stops  short  at  Fernan  Caba- 
llero  and  makes  no  mention  of  the  distinguished 
modern  novelists.  A  writer  who  holds  up  Her- 
bert Spencer  as  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  philosophy 
(Spanish  free-thinkers  are  a  generation  be- 
hind in  certain  phases  of  thought)  need  not  be 
taken  too  seriously,  but  the  "  Cosas  de  Espana  " 
voices  what  is  serious. 

"Ah  Castillo  Castillano!  why  have  we  ever 
known  you!"  exclaims  the  Catalan  poet  Briz, 
in  his  celebrated  poem,  "  Cuatro  pals  de  Sanch," 
the  blazon  of  the  province,  its  four  red  bars. 
"  If  to  us  remains  only  one  of  our  four  bars  of 
blood,  to  you  we  owe  the  loss,  thou  kingdom  of 
the  castles  and  the  hungry  lions.  But,  O  Cas- 
tillo Castillano,  alas  for  you,  if  you  break  our 
last  pals  de  sanch! 33  This  bitter  spirit  of  revolt 
makes  this  grand  old  province  that  should  be 
Spain's  bulwark,  Spain's  weakness  instead. 

Would  Catalonia  gain  by  any  of  the  changes 
she  dreams  of?  Surely  under  the  formalism  of 
France,  her  self-willed  independence  would  chafe 
and  break  loose,  for  independence  is  a  char- 
acteristic of  all  Spaniards,  in  all  ages,  now  and 
always;  one  cannot  exaggerate  it.  Also  the 
heart  of  the  province  is  too  deeply  religious  to 
live  under  the  "  Liberte  "  of  her  neighbor.  In 
the  United  States  religious  liberty  is  little  talked 


412  Heroic  Spain 

of,  but  is  a  solid  fact,  wherein  the  new  world  gives 
a  needed  lesson  to  the  old,  with  its  narrow  hor- 
izons and  petty  disputes.  In  France,  where  this 
liberty  is  vaunted,  it  is  a  farce :  no  Catalan  could 
long  tolerate  such  freedom.  Again,  if  this  small 
state  were  independent,  where  would  she  stand? 
A  thought  that  strikes  one  forcibly  after  a  tour 
of  the  province,  whose  towns,  Gerona,  Lerida, 
Tarragona,  are  of  mediocre  importance.  Cata- 
lonia independent  would  be  practically  one  city, 
Barcelona,  whose  trade  the  central  government 
could  cripple  by  prohibitory  tariffs.  Her  pride 
would  suffer  more  as  one  of  the  smallest,  weakest 
states  in  Europe,  than  it  now  suffers  under  its 
lawful  king,  part  of  an  old  race  that  once  led  the 
World,  and  which  if  only  this  discontented  daugh- 
ter would  generously  help,  has  red  blood  enough 
to  again  play  a  prominent  part.  Spain  needs  just 
such  help  as  the  Catalan  can  give,  she  needs  his 
grit,  his  industry,  his  progressiveness.  Could  he 
now  bear  the  overweighted  burden  in  a  better 
spirit,  before  many  years  it  would  be  lightened. 
The  north  is  awakening  to  industrial  life;  Bil- 
bao, Santander,  Gijon,  Coruna,  Vigo,  will  soon 
be  strong  trading  centers,  and  the  older  commer- 
cial city  can  gather  supporters  to  work  for  fiscal 
autonomy,  since  the  chief  grievance  is  the  cen- 
tralized system  of  government  in  Madrid.  Let 
her  agitate  in  a  constitutional  way  for  a  system 


Barcelona  413 

like  the  separate  state  arrangement  of  our  union. 
The  opposition  of  two  vigorous  sides  is  a  sign 
of  life  in  a  nation.  Discussion  means  change 
and  advancement.  For  full  vigor  both  sides  are 
needed,  the  conservative  to  serve  as  brake  on  the 
democrat's  too  swiftly-turning  wheels.  An  im- 
portant cause  of  Spain's  decay,1  according  to 
Don  Juan  Valera,  came  from  all  classes  thinking 
the  same  way;  drunk  with  pride  on  the  ending 
of  the  centuries  of  crusade  against  their  Moorish 
invader,  with  the  discovery  of  a  new  continent 
the  people  lay  back  in  slothful  inertia,  without 
the  prick  of  dispute  to  rouse  them.  Opposition 
and  struggle  are  essential  to  vigor,  but  disloyalty 
saps  a  nation's  strength.  Let  them  strike 
straight-front  blows  from  the  shoulder,  for 
Madrid  needs  rousing,  but  let  them  not  stab  in 
the  back.  Often  when  wandering  among  the  old 
tombs  of  Spain,  those  effigies  of  the  grand-mas- 
ters of  Santiago,  Calatrava  and  Alcantara,  the 
plumed  and  helmeted  knights  of  the  noble  brows, 
I  recalled  some  ringing  lines  of  Newbolt's. 
Every  boy  of  Barcelona  should  know  them  by 
heart,  they  are  not  so  needed  in  Castile: 

"  To  set  the  cause  above  renown, 
To  love  the  game  above  the  prize, 
To  honour  while  you  strike  him  down 
The  foe  that  comes  with  fearless  eyes. 

1  "  El  principle  de  la  salud  esta  en  conocer  la  enfermedad."  —  Old 
Spanish  proverb. 


414  Heroic  Spain 

To  count  the  life  of  battle  good, 

And  dear  the  land  that  gave  you  birth, 

And  dearer  yet  the  brotherhood 

That  binds  the  brave  of  all  the  earth." 

Her  intense  local  patriotism  has  a  more  sym- 
pathetic side  than  double-naming  her  streets  and 
bearing  a  jealous  grudge  against  her  central 
government.  This  is  the  revival  of  her  provin- 
cial literature.  The  interest  in  dialects  and  folk 
lore  is  a  tendency  common  to  many  countries  to- 
day, but  in  Catalonia  the  movement  is  on  a  grand 
scale.  There  newspapers  and  magazines  in  dia- 
lect are  circulated,  poems  and  novels  are  printed 
not  for  the  literary  alone  but  for  the  populace. 
Men  of  undeniable  genius  have  written  in  the 
local  tongue,  one  of  the  first  to  use  it  being  that 
strangely  interesting  character  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  Ramon  Lull,  seneschal  of  Majorca, 
troubadour,  mystic  hermit,  philosopher,  mission- 
ary, and  his  final  glory,  martyr  for  the  Faith;  he 
is  honored  in  the  Church  as  el  beato  Raimundo 
Lulio.  By  less  than  ten  years  he  missed  being 
the  contemporary  of  the  gentle  Assisian,  the 
habit  of  whose  tertiaries  he  wore;  he  wandered 
through  Italy  while  Dante  was  writing  his 
visions,  in  that  wonderful  century  called  dark, 
that  can  claim  a  Thomas  Aquinas,  a  Bonaven- 
tura,  an  Abertus  Magnus,  an  Elizabeth  of  Hun- 
gary, a  Dominic,  an  Anthony  of  Padua,  and 


Barcelona  415 

that  scattered  over  Europe  such  witnesses  of  its 
upleap  of  aspiration  as  Amiens,  Chartres,  West- 
minster, Salisbury,  Cologne,  Strasburg,  Leon, 
Toledo,  Siena. 

Lull  was  born  in  the  capital  of  the  Balearic 
Islands,  which  lie  a  day's  sail  from  Barcelona, 
and  having  passed  an  apprenticeship  at  court 
under  Jaime  el  Conquistador  of  Aragon,  he  led 
in  Palma  a  life  of  pleasure  and  dissipation  till 
his  romantic  conversion  at  thirty-two.  Nunez 
de  Arce  has  enshrined  the  legend  in  verse:  so 
violent  was  the  seneschal's  pursuit  of  a  fair  lady 
of  the  city  that  he  once  on  horseback  followed 
her  into  church  to  the  scandal  of  the  people.  The 
poet  gives  the  final  scene  that  cured  his  passion, 
when  she  who  was  so  exquisite  without,  to  repell 
his  advances,  exposed  to  him  a  hidden  cancer. 
The  shock  changed  the  worldling  to  a  saint. 
Distributing  his  goods  to  the  poor,  he  retired  to 
a  mountain,  and  spent  some  years  in  prayer. 
Later  in  his  energetic  career  he  returned  to 
this  hermitage  to  pass  again  periods  in  medita- 
tion for  his  spiritual  strengthening,  being  the 
first  to  show  that  special  faculty  of  the  Spanish 
mystic,  the  double  life  of  solitary  ecstasy  and 
active  charity.  The  desire  to  convert  the  Mo- 
hammedan took  such  possession  of  his  soul  that 
at  forty  he  put  himself  to  school,  like  the  great 
Basque  patron  of  a  later  day,  and  in  Paris  he 


6  Heroic  Spain 

studied  logic  and  Arabic  in  preparation  for  his 
future  career. 

Lull  attained  fourscore  years,  the  latter  half 
of  his  life  being  dominated  by  his  burning  pur- 
pose to  convert  Islam.  One  pope  after  another 
as  he  mounted  the  chair  of  Peter  was  beseiged 
by  this  astonishing  man,  and  he  wandered  from 
court  to  court  urging  the  universities  to  teach 
the  oriental  languages,  that  missionaries  for  the 
East  might  be  fittingly  prepared.  Little  suc- 
cess crowned  his  efforts  for  popes  and  kings  had 
troubles  nearer  home.  The  Catalan  enthusiast 
came  at  an  inopportune  moment;  the  last  two 
Crusades  under  St.  Louis  of  France  had  left 
discouragement  behind.  However,  before  his 
death  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  chairs  of 
Hebrew  and  Arabic  founded  by  a  pope,  by 
a  French  king,  and  in  Spain  and  England. 
The  indefatigable  man  visited  Austria,  Poland, 
and  Greece;  he  advocated  the  protection  of  the 
Greeks  against  Moslem  incursions,  a  result 
only  achieved  in  our  own  day;  he  stopped  in 
Cypress,  traversed  Armenia,  Palestine,  and 
Egypt,  zealously  expounding  the  Gospel.  His 
first  visit  as  an  apostle  to  Northern  Africa  was 
a  failure.  There  is  something  touching  about 
this  old  missionary  of  six  hundred  years  ago  be- 
ing driven  out  of  Tunis  —  he  and  his  loved 
library  —  and  embarked  with  harsh  orders  never 


Barcelona  417 

to  return.  Not  in  any  spirit  of  patronage  did  he 
labor  for  the  conversion  of  souls,  but  wiser  than 
many  to-day  he  carried  with  him  true  knowl- 
edge and  respect  for  the  Mohammedans.  His 
liberal  intelligence  assimulated  much  that  was  of 
value  in  their  ideas,  especially  from  those  heretics 
of  Islam,  the  Persian  Sufis,  or  mystics. 

A  second  time  when  over  seventy  Lull  ven- 
tured across  to  Africa,  and  again  he  —  and  the 
books  —  were  violently  expelled*  I  fear  our 
blessed  Raimundo  was  a  bit  of  a  visionary,  he 
thought  to  convince  by  intellectual  debate.  The 
king  of  England  learning  of  the  old  scholar's 
chemical  studies,  with  the  curiosity  of  the  period 
in  regard  to  the  philosopher's  stone,  invited  him 
to  London,  and  lodged  him  with  the  monks  of 
Westminster  Abbey.  Chemistry  was  merely  a 
side  issue  in  the  life  of  the  great  missionary. 
Just  short  of  his  eightieth  year,  with  untiring 
courage  and  magnificent  faith,  he  set  forth  once 
more  on  his  final  apostleship  to  the  Moham- 
medan, and  once  more  preached  in  Egypt,  Jeru- 
salem, and  Tunis.  At  Bugia  he  was  stoned  by 
the  furious  populace,  who  left  him  for  dead  on 
the  beach,  and  some  Genoese  merchants  carried 
away  his  almost  lifeless  body.  Before  they 
reached  the  harbor  of  Palma  the  martyr  had  died, 
and  his  townsmen  buried  him  with  honors  in  the 
church  of  his  master,  St.  Francis, 


4i 8  Heroic  Spain 

Lull's  books,  the  "  Ars  Magna  "  and  the  "  Ar- 
bor Scientise,"  are  filled  with  the  curious  system 
he  evolved  for  reducing  discords.  He  tried  to 
co-ordinate  and  facilitate  the  operations  of  the 
mind,  to  simplify  all  sciences  by  showing  them 
to  be  branches  of  one  trunk.  Much  of  his  theory 
may  be  fanciful  and  impractical,  but  it  was  a 
truly  suggestive  idea  based  on  the  profound  truth 
of  the  unity  of  knowledge.  He  explored  many 
branches  of  the  human  mind,  and  left  works  on 
medicine,  theology,  politics,  jurisprudence, 
mathematics  and  chemistry.  The  accusation  of 
alchemy  is  untenable,  for  he  made  his  experi- 
ments in  scientific  good  faith,  and  wrote  against 
astrology.  For  three  centuries,  down  to  the  time 
of  Descartes,  Lull  was  considered  a  leader  of  the 
intellect,  and  his  books  were  recommended  by 
the  universities  of  Europe. 

The  Catalan  dialect  has  been  used  by  men  of 
marked  talent  in  our  own  time.  The  whole  of 
Spain  should  be  as  proud  of  Padre  Jacinto  Ver- 
daguer,  as  all  France  is  of  their  Proven9al,  Mis- 
tral. Verdaguer's  "  Atlantada,"  called  the  best 
epic  of  the  century,  was  crowned  in  1855  at  the 
Floral  Games,  festivals  which  are  held  in  Barce- 
lona each  year,  for  competitions  in  verse  and 
prose,  and  to  revive  the  national  dances. 

This  intellectual  movement  rouses  the 
stranger's  enthusiasm,  and  if  it  keeps  itself  dis- 


Barcelona  419 

sociated  from  politics, —  those  abominable  poli- 
tics that  sink  every  noble  thing  they  fasten  on, 
patriotism,  education,  religion,  art,  —  the  revival 
may  prove  more  than  a  passing  phase.  Alert  in 
literature,  in  music,  in  the  sciences,  in  municipal 
progress,  and  commercial  success,  what  need  has 
this  city  to  be  jealous  of  the  capital;  they  are 
too  different  for  comparison.  Madrid  lacks 
much  that  Barcelona  can  claim;  a  Catalan 
could  emulate  some  Castilian  qualities.  Each 
vitally  needs  the  other. 


GERONA 

AND  FAREWELL  TO  SPAIN 

"  I  count  him  wise 

Who  loves  so  well  man's  noble  memories 
He  needs  must  love  man's  nobler  hopes  yet  more !  " 

WILLIAM  WATSON. 

"  Una  restauracion  de  la  vida  entera  de  Espana  no 
puede  tener  otro  punto  de  arranque  que  la  concentra- 
cion  de  todas  nuestras  energias  dentro  de  nuestro  terri- 
torio.  Hay  que  cerrar  con  cerrojos,  Haves,  y  candados 
todas  las  puertas  por  donde  el  espiritu  espafiol  se  escapo 
de  Espana  para  derramarse  por  los  cuatro  puntos  del 
horizonte,  y  por  donde  hoy  espera  que  ha  de  venir  la  sal- 
vacion ;  y  en  cada  una  de  esas  puertas  no  pondremos  un 
rotulo  dantesco  que  diga:  "  Lasciate  ogni  speranza," 
sino  este  otro  mas  consolador,  mas  humano,  muy  profun- 
damente  humano,  imitado  de  San  Ajustin:  "  Noli  foras 
ire ;  in  interiore  Hispanise  habitat  veritas." 

ANGEL  GANIVET:  "  Idearium  Espanol." 

THE  day  drew  near  for  our  leaving  Spain. 
Eight  months  had  passed  since  we  entered  from 
the  north  of  the  Pyrenees  isthmus,  and  now  we 
found  ourselves  at  its  southern  exit.  They  had 
been  months  filled  with  an  absorbing  and  unex- 
pected interest;  we  had  come  into  Spain  for  a 
mere  autumn  tour,  and  she  had  forced  us  to 


\ 


N 


A  STREET  STAIRWAY,  GERONA 


Gerona  421 

linger.  And  I  must  repeat  that  I  came  with  the 
average  pessimistic  idea  that  she  was  a  spent 
and  more  or  less  worthless  country,  till  what  I 
saw  about  me  daily  changed  me  to  a  partisan. 
It  was  a  hard  farewell  to  take  now.  When  Spain 
is  allowed  to  show  herself  as  she  is,  she  wins  a 
regard  that  is  like  an  intense  personal  affection. 
At  dawn  on  the  early  day  in  June  set  for  our 
departure  we  left  Barcelona;  before  night  we 
would  be  in  France,  but  the.  leave-taking  was  to 
be  broken  by  some  hours  in  Gerona.  As  usual 
it  was  the  fact  of  its  possessing  a  first-rate  church 
that  determined  us  to  stop.  This  was  to  be  the 
last  of  the  grand  cathedrals  which  more  than 
those  of  any  land,  even  of  France  with  their 
purer  art,  had  realized  my  ideal  of  worship  and 
reverence.  As  Gerona  was  in  Catalonia,  good 
architecture  was  to  be  expected,  but  this  was  bet- 
ter than  good.  The  Cathedral  which  dominates 
the  town  was  worthy  of  its  stirring  memories. 
An  imposing  flight  of  eighty  steps,  like  that  of 
the  Ara  Cceli  in  Rome,  ascends  to  its  west  portal. 
At  the  head  of  this  staircase  we  paused  to  look 
out  on  the  panorama  of  the  Pyrenees  —  moun- 
tain rose  behind  mountain,  the  foreground  hills 
well-wooded,  those  beyond  covered  with  snow. 
Here  was  no  stupid  Escorial  facing  in  to  a  blank 
wall.  The  old  masters  with  vivifying  imagina- 
tions had  brought  the  glories  of  nature  to  wor- 


422  Heroic  Spain 

ship  with  them,  had  hung  as  it  were  in  their 
porch,  this  lovely  landscape. 

Within  the  Cathedral  the  first  impression  is 
its  spaciousness.  The  width  is  astonishing;  in- 
deed the  hall-like  nave  of  Gerona  is  the  widest 
Gothic  vault  in  Christendom,  and  were  it  longer 
by  two  bays,  no  cathedral  of  Europe  could  have 
surpassed  the  effect.  The  wide  nave  of  Catalan 
churches  is  a  national  feature  that  here  reaches 
its  acme.  The  choir  of  Gerona  is  on  a  smaller 
scale,  and  the  meeting  of  the  two  makes  a  curi- 
ous feature,  not  bad  inside,  but  in  the  exterior 
view  extremely  ugly.  Probably  in  time  the  choir 
would  have  been  enlarged  to  fit  its  monstrous 
nave.  The  men  in  those  days  started  undertak- 
ings as  if  they  could  never  die,  but  later  gen- 
erations have  lacked  their  enthusiastic  ambition. 

By  happy  chance  we  were  in  time  to  assist  at 
a  last  High  Mass  in  a  Spanish  cathedral.  It  is 
no  exaggeration  to  say  one's  heart  felt  heavy  in 
listening  to  the  solemn  chanting,  watching  the 
reverence  of  priests,  acolytes,  and  congregation, 
to  realize  that  this  was  for  the  last  time.  The 
last  time  we  should  see  the  kiss  of  peace  carried 
symbolically  from  the  priest  at  the  altar  to  the 
canons  in  the  choir,  the  last  time  we  should  hear 
the  clamor  of  the  wheel  of  bells.  I  looked  up  to 
where  they  hung  on  the  wall  and  nodded  them  a 
little  personal  farewell,  so  often  had  they 


Gerona  423 

charmed  me.  Farewell  to  sedate  Spanish  piety, 
to  the  devotional  unconsciousness  of  individual 
prayer.  Over  the  frontier,  during  the  coming 
summer  at  Luchon,  I  was  soon  to  hear  wooden 
signals  clapped  during  Mass  to  guide  the  wan- 
dering attention  of  the  people,  to  see  the  children 
scamper  out  in  obvious  relief. 

The  chancel  of  Gerona  is  a  gem.  The  iron 
reja  that  shuts  in  the  capilla  mayor  is  of  the 
plainest,  like  a  wall  of  stacked  spears  guarding 
the  holy  of  holies.  There  is  no  towering  retablo, 
which  would  be  out  of  character  with  slender 
Catalan  piers;  instead,  behind  the  altar  is  a 
marvelous  reredos  of  silver  carved  in  scenes,  and 
surmounted  by  three  Byzantine  processional 
crosses,  —  all  ancient  and  priceless  enough  to  be 
the  treasure  of  a  national  museum.  The  altar 
and  the  canopy  over  it  are  also  of  silver,  retablo 
and  altar  being  placed  where  they  now  stand  in 
1346.  The  effect  of  iron  reja  and  precious  shrine 
is  faultlessly  artistic;  we  sigh  here  for  a  beauty 
as  completely  lost  for  our  copying  as  is  the  tran- 
quil perfection  of  these  gravestones,  the  sculp- 
tured stelae  of  Athens. 

The  service  over,  we  proceeded  to  examine  the 
church.  The  cloisters  are  oddly  irregular  in 
shape,  and  look  out  on  the  snow-topped  Pyre- 
nees. So  beautiful  was  the  prospect  that  I  added 
this  cloister  setting  to  the  dream-cathedral  Spain 


424  Heroic  Spain 

tempts  one  to  build.  It  would  have  the  cloisters 
of  Tarragona  with  this  outlook  of  Gerona's ;  also 
Gerona's  altar  and  retablo,  though  the  reredos 
of  Avila  and  that  of  Tarragona  are  worthy 
rivals.  There  would  be  the  grand  staircase  of 
this  Cathedral,  and  it  would  ascend  to  a  western 
portal  like  Leon's,  with  Santiago's  Portico  de  la 
Gloria  within;  the  north  and  south  doors  would 
be  Plateresque  from  Salamanca  and  Valladolid. 
The  cathedral  would  be  set  on  Lerida's  crag, 
with  the  city  of  Toledo  climbing  to  it  and  the 
Tagus  churning  below.  The  nave  would  be 
Seville's,  and  Seville's  windows  would  light  it 
and  her  organ  thunder  there.  The  choir  would 
be  Toledo's,  carved  by  Rodrigo,  Berruguete, 
and  Vigarni,  the  chancel  Barcelona's  stilted 
arches.  How  they  could  be  combined  is  hard  to 
solve,  but  round  this  capilla  mayor  would  run 
the  double  ambulatory  of  Toledo,  and  the  apse 
outside  have  Leon's  flying  buttresses, —  the  apse 
which  the  old  mystics  held  as  symbolic  of  the 
crown  of  thorns  about  the  head  of  Christ  (the 
Altar).  Eejas  from  Burgos,  Granada,  Seville, 
would  guard  the  chapels,  and  tombs  of  knights 
and  bishops  from  Sigiienza,  from  Zamora  — 
from  every  town  of  Spain  in  fact  —  would  line 
the  walls:  tapestries  and  treasures  from  Sara- 
gossa;  a  via  crucis  by  Hernandez  and  portrait 
statues  by  Montanes;  a  sacristy  like  that  of 


Gerona  425 

Avila ;  a  sola  capitular  copied  from  the  Renais- 
sance grace  of  San  Benito  in  Alcantara;  and  a 
wealth  of  side  chapels, —  a  Condestable  chapel,  a 
San  Isidore,  a  Camera  Santa,  a  San  Millan,  a 
Santa  Maria  la  Blanca,  and  an  isolated  shrine 
like  Palencia's,  standing  in  the  ambulatory. 
And  always  beneath  the  vault  of  this  cathedral 
would  be  found  far-off  little  Lugo's  solemn  ado- 
ration, and  there  would  be  processions  as  impos- 
ing as  Andalusia,  with  the  piety  of  Estrema- 
dura,  or  the  Basque.  The  Giralda,  built  in  the 
warm  red  stone  of  Astorga  tower,  would  stand 
close  by,  and  not  far  away,  a  monastery,  line  for 
line,  like  Poblet.  Sitting  in  a  Spanish  cloister 
looking  out  on  the  Pyrenees,  one  drifts  into 
dream-pictures  of  the  ideal  cathedral. 

Gerona  has  a  few  other  churches  worth  exam- 
ining, that  of  San  Feliu,  with  two  Roman  sar- 
cophagi and  several  early  Christian  ones  with 
wave-like  lines.  We  rambled  about  the  plaza 
where  a  fair  was  in  progress,  and  at  every  turn- 
ing kept  bidding  farewell  to  familiar  scenes  of 
Spanish  life;  we  were  not  again  to  hear  the 
peace-bringing  "  Vaya  Usted  con  Dios! "  not 
again  to  assent  to  the  cordial  "  Hasta  luego! " 

The  city  is  massively  built,  but  it  has  a  bat- 
tered look,  and  no  wonder.  During  the  French 
invasion,  Gerona  stood  a  siege  as  terrific  as  any 
in  history,  yet  who  of  us  has  heard  of  it?  In 


426  Heroic  Spain 

May,  1809,  a  French  army  surrounded  the 
city  where  there  were  only  three  thousand  sol- 
diers for  the  defense,  yet  for  seven  months  the 
town  defied  the  invaders,  and  that  with  half  a 
dozen  breaches  in  the  walls.  The  women  shoul- 
dered guns  and  drilled  in  a  battalion  formed  by 
Dona  Lucia  Fitzgerald;  old  men  and  children 
piled  up  the  earth  of  the  ramparts;  cloistered 
nuns,  at  a  higher  call,  left  their  convents  to  nurse 
the  wounded  to  whom  they  gave  up  their  cells, 
so  many  priests  fell  fighting  on  the  walls  that  no 
services  were  held  in  the  churches,  there  was  only 
the  burning  of  candles;  no  one  bought  or  sold, 
for  every  shopman  was  a  soldier.  When  a  gal- 
lant English  volunteer  died  on  the  ramparts,  he 
exclaimed  that  he  lost  his  life  gladly  in  a  cause  so 
just  for  a  nation  so  heroic. 

The  French  drew  closer  and  closer,  and  slowly 
the  city  starved.  The  hardships  endured  were 
incredible.  They  ate  rats  and  mice,  yet  no 
thought  came  of  surrender.  A  hot  August 
dragged  by,  in  September  the  French  attacked 
fiercely  and  on  both  sides  the  men  fell  like  flies. 
Who  was  the  soul  of  this  indomitable  fortitude? 
The  order  and  subordination  told  of  a  master 
mind,  and  Gerona  had  one,  Don  Mariano  Al- 
varez de  Castro,  the  inflexible  governor.  He  it 
was  who  enrolled  the  women  and  children  in  the 
defense;  his  lofty  spirit  never  wavered,  and  his 


Gerona  427 

force  of  character  gave  him  so  accepted  an 
authority  that  he  was  able  to  direct  a  hopeless 
defense  without  recourse  to  cruelty.  The  siege 
of  Gerona  was  not  stained  by  any  brutal  act. 

The  blockade  drew  closer.  By  October  liter- 
ally all  food  was  gone,  and  the  people  began  to 
fall  in  the  streets  to  a  foe  more  terrible  than  bul- 
lets. Governor  Alvarez  stood  like  a  rock  of 
courage.  When  he  passed  up  the  Cathedral 
steps  where  the  heart-rending  groups  of  the  dy- 
ing lay,  his  very  presence  gave  hope :  if  there  was 
a  faint-hearted  citizen  in  Gerona,  he  was  more 
afraid  of  that  iron  man  than  of  the  French. 
Never  would  the  governor  have  yielded,  but  to- 
ward the  close  of  the  year  he  fell  ill  in  the  in- 
fested air,  and  as  he  lay  in  delirium  the  city 
capitulated.  With  hundreds  of  dead  bodies  ly- 
ing unburied  in  the  streets,  there  was  nothing 
else  to  be  done. 

Then  followed  a  scene  which  did  honor  to  the 
invader;  it  rings  with  the  same  chivalry  that 
Velasquez  painted  in  the  "  Surrender  of  Breda," 
where  Spinola  bends  to  meet  the  conquered 
Nassau,  the  same  spirit  that  made  those  French- 
men of  an  earlier  day  carry  a  certain  wounded 
knight,  their  prisoner,  on  a  litter  from  Pam- 
plona across  the  mountains  to  his  castle  of 
Loyola.  The  foreign  troops  marched  into 
Gerona  in  a  dead  silence,  with  not  a  gesture  of 


428  Heroic  Spain 

triumph,  moved  to  awe  by  the  corpses  that  cov- 
ered the  pavements  and  to  reverence  by  the  few 
hollow-eyed,  living  skeletons  that  met  them. 
The  moral  victory  lay  with  the  conquered. 
When  food  was  offered  the  starved  people,  even 
that  was  at  first  refused.  Don  Mariano  Alvarez, 
taken  prisoner  on  his  bed,  died  mysteriously, 
poisoned,  some  say,  in  the  fortress  of  Figueras 
not  long  after.  And  all  this  horror  and  heroism 
was  only  a  hundred  years  ago !  —  we  too  walked 
the  streets  of  Gerona  in  silent  reverence. 

Then  once  again  on  the  train;  more  volcanic 
hills,  more  dry  rivers  that  showed  what  the  spring 
torrents  must  be  like,  and  in  a  few  hours  Port- 
Bou,  the  Spanish  frontier  town,  was  reached. 
We  stood  at  the  car  window  looking  out  sadly 
on  the  last  of  Spain  as  the  train  swept  round  the 
blue  inlets  of  the  Mediterranean. 

Farewell  to  this  great  Christian  democracy 
where  the  simple  title  of  Don  is  borne  by  king 
and  people  alike,  to  the  "  nation  least  material 
of  Europe,"  farewell  to  a  grave,  contented  race, 
whose  leaders  left  noble  works  as  noble  as  their 
lives,  whose  writers  were  soldiers  and  heroes, 
where  artists  prepared  for  religious  scenes  by 
fasting  and  prayers,  where  mystics  were  not  neg- 
ative and  inert,  but  emerged  from  their  union 
with  God  with  more  power  for  practical  life, 
whose  women  have  by  instinct  the  dignity  of 


Gerona  429 

womanhood,  untainted  yet  by  luxury,  a  land  that 
can  boast  the  two  first  women  of  all  ages  and 
countries,  an  Isabella  of  Castile,  and  a  St. 
Teresa. 

Some  may  think  I  carry  admiration  too  far. 
Carping  criticism  of  Spain  has  been  pushed  to 
such  an  extent  that  it  is  time  to  swing  to  the 
other  side:  where  there  can  be  no  joy,  no  ad- 
miration, there  can  be  no  stimulus.  I  like  to 
take  M.  Rene  Bazin's  words  as  if  addressed  to 
me:  "  Vous  avez  raison  de  croire  a  la  vitalite  de 
1'Espagne.  Elle  n'a  jamais  ete  une  nation 
dechue,  elle  a  ete  une  nation  blessee." 

A  wounded  nation  but  not  one  stricken  to 
death.  She  is  recovering.  Let  her  but  be  patient 
and  aspire  slowly;  disciplined,  tried  in  the  fire 
and  purified,  by  living  without  the  ceaseless  up- 
heavals of  the  past  century,  by  industry,  by  com- 
merce, with  no  encumbering  colonies  to  drain  her 
blood,  with  the  Catalans  calling  the  Castilians 
"  paisanos"  she  will  get  back  her  former  strength 
and  brio.  Her  literature,  her  art,  are  lifting 
their  heads. 

My  prayer  for  Spain  in  her  rehabilitation  is, 
that  she  may  not  diverge  from  her  national  spirit 
and  traditions,  may  modern  ideas  not  change  her 
unworldliness  and  her  stoical  endurance,  "  su 
esencia  inmortal  y  su  propio  cardcter"  May 
she  guard  her  faith,  her  glory  in  the  past  and  her 


430  Heroic  Spain 

aspiration  for  the  future,  the  faith  of  the  Cross 
that  has  struck  deeper  root  here  than  in  any  spot 
on  earth,  but  remembering  always  that  her  own 
greatest  saint  warns  her:  "  In  the  spiritual  life 
not  to  advance  is  to  go  back."  May  she  never 
lose  the  virile  independence  of  character  that  so 
distinguishes  her  people,  the  pride  of  simple 
manhood  that  looks  out  of  the  eyes  of  her  honor- 
able peasantry  and  makes  their  innate  courtesy. 
No  nation  was  ever  formed  so  completely 
by  the  chivalry  of  the  Middle  Ages  as  Spain. 
May  she  always  be  Espana  la  heroica! 


INDEX 


ACTTNA,  tomb  of  Bishop,  40,  41 
Africa,  74,  86,  87,  178,  230,  245, 

246,  337,  409,  416,  417 
Ajustina    of    Aragon    ("  Maid    of 

Saragossa"),  381 
Alacon,  Pedro  Antonio  de,  151, 328, 

335,  336,  337 
Alas,  Leopoldo,  93,  328,  341,  342, 

349 
Alba  de  Tonnes,  159, 160,  200,  205- 

210 

Albertus  Magnus,  414 
Alcala  de  Henares,  28,  67,  73,  142, 

238,  244,  246,  249,  342,  372 
Alcantara,  359-364,  394 
Alcantara,  St.  Peter  of,  199 
Alfonso  II,  el  Casto,  90,  94 
Alfonso  VI,  87,  116,  129,  231,  236 
Alfonso  VIII,  a  de  las  Navas,  50,  84 
Alfonso  X,  el  sabio,  134,  291,  375 
Alfonso  XI,  250 
Alfonso  XII,   179,   180,   217,   333, 

337,  343 
Alfonso  XIII,  50, 174, 180, 181, 182, 

217,  287,  289,  290,  291.  292,  351, 

355 
Alhambra,  the,  86,  258,  265-272, 

280,  396 

Almohades,  the,  88 
Almoravides,  the,  88 
Altamira  y  Crevea,  Sr.  Rafael,  327 
Alva,  Duke  of,  65,  205 
Alvarez  de  Castro,  Mariano,  426, 

427,  428 
Amadeus  I  (Duke  of  Aosta),  179, 

333 
America,  the  U.  S.  of,  9,  16,  18,  41, 

64,  128,  140,  209,  332,  370,  397, 

411 


America,  South,  90,  177,  211,  248, 

290,  319,  332,  364,  365,  366,  395, 

397 

Amicis,  Edmondo  de,  259 
Amiens,  cathedral  of,  81,  415 
Andalusia,  2,  37,  87,  102,  105,  112, 

151,  178,  189,  225,  230,  242,  257 

259,  316,  317,  319,  333,  336,  343 
Aquinas,  St.  Thomas,  187,  414 
Aragon,  79,  105,  226,  372.  375-384, 

391 
Architecture,  9,  36,  42,  43,  48,  54, 

81,  91,  147,  151,  232,  295,  385. 

393,  400,  403,  421.      See  Gothic. 

Romanesque,  Plateresque 
Arenal,  Dona  Concepcion,  133 
Arfe  family,  the  de,  202,  312 
Armory,  Madrid,  the  Royal,  114, 

220,  226,  227,  228 
Arroyo,  360,  363,  368 
Astorga,  4,  105,  113-116,  141,  159 
Asturias,  4,  79-103,  105,  112,  267, 

341,  346 
Asturias,  Prince  of,  84,  85,  288,  291, 

324 

Athens,  149,  268,  423 
Augustine,  St.,  18,  155,  156,  189, 

246,  342 

Augustus  Csesar,  107,  392 
Averroes,  88,  319 
Avila,  6,  159,  160,  162,  164,  166, 

195-212,  213,  216,  269,  273,  396 
Azcoitia,  14,  18,  23 
Azpeitia,  23,  30,  31 

BAALBEC,  ruins  of,  353 
Bacon,  Lord,  28,  64,  69,  135 
Bailen,  battle  of,  172,  380 
Balearic  Islands,  415 


432 


Index 


Balmes  y  Uspia,  Jaime,  210 
Baltazar  Carlos,  infante,  Don,  60, 

221,  227,  378 

Balzac,  HonorS  de,  327,  333 
Barcelona,  7,  8,  26,  28,  140,  146, 

216,  345,  379,  394,  395-419,  421 
Basque  Provinces,  4,  13-32,  36,  79, 

83,  101,  105 
Bazan,    Dona    Emilia    Pardo,    see 

Pardo  Bazan 

Bazin,  M.  Rene,  79,  258,  347,  429 
Becerra,  Gaspar,  115 
Becquer,  Gustavo  Adolfo,  256 
Bembo,  Pietro,  Cardinal,  251 
Benedict  XIV,  136 
Benedictine  rule,  the,  48,  49,  135, 

136,  225,  364,  389 
Benson.  Rev.  Robert  Hugh,  188 
Berruguete,  Alonso  de,  44,  60,  82, 

205,  233.    illustration   256,  377, 

424 

Bidassoa,  river,  15 
Bilbao,  4,  91,  140,  412 
Blasco  Ibafiez,  Vicente,  328,  340, 

341 

Boabdil,  227 
Bobadilla,  2,  265 
Bonaventura,  St.,  187,  414 
Borgia,  St.  Francis  (de  Borja),  21, 

26,  28,  30,  191,   199,  240,   251, 

252,  253,  254,  371 
Borromeo,  St.  Charles,  191,  255 
Borrow,  George,  quoted,  283 
Boston,    U.  S.   A.,    64,   118,   148, 

224. 
Bourbon  kings  in  Spain,  the,  72, 

136,  171,  173,  234,  324,  367 
Briz,  Francisco  Pelayo,  411 
Browning,  Robert,  34 
Brunetiere,  Ferdinand,  337 
Bude,  Guillaume,  28 
Byron,  Lord,  321,  381 
Byzantine  'Influences    in    Spanish 

Art,  48,  94,  96,  108,   148,  262, 

403,  423 
Bull-fight,  the,  11, 16, 127, 128, 129, 

309,  358 
Burgos,  4,  33-54,  55,  56,  57,  92,  95, 

148,  189,  201,  204,  273,  424 


CABALLERO,  FERNAN,  pseud  (Dona 

Cecelia  B.  von  F.  de  A'rrom),  127, 

328,  329,  330,  343,  411 
Caceres,  356,  357,  358,  359,  362, 

364,  369 

Cadiz,  7,  71,  143,  176,  178,  316-325 
Calatyud,  376 
Calderon  de  la  Barca,  Pedro.  240, 

253,  327 

Calvin,  John,  68 
Campion,  Edmund,  68 
Campoamor,  Ram6n  de,  179,  274 
Cano,  Alonzo,  60,  61 
Cano,  Melchor,  153 
Cantabrian  mountains,  82,  83,  84, 

102,  112,  122,  124,  347,  348 
Carmelite  Order,  the,  183,  189,  198 

199,  200 
Carmona,  Salvador,  see  illustration 

327 

Carr,  Sir  John,  381,  382 
Castelar  y  Ripoll,  Emilio,  179 
Castile,  6,  12,  34,  35,  36,  37,  40,  54, 

55,  79,  83,  101,  105,  165, 184,  196, 

201,  204,  211,  212,  228,  229,  238, 

245,  247,  257,  259,  267,  282,  397, 

411,  429 

Catalan  language,  409,  414,  418 
Catalan  question,  409-414 
Catalonia,  3,  79,  101,  105,  134,  253, 

383,  385,  388,  391,  392,  396,  397, 

400,  404,  405,  409,  410,  411,  412, 

414,  419,  421,  429 
Cathedrals,  Spanish,  38, 42,  43, 108, 

149,  150,  151,  202,  219,  233,  261, 
404,  421,  422,  423,  424.     Avila, 
110,    150,    201,    205,    232,    425. 
Astorga,    115,    425.      Barcelona, 

150,  403,  404,  424.    Burgos,  36- 
48,  54,  148.  150,  424.    Cadiz,  323. 
Cordova,  261-265.     Gerona,  421- 

424.  Grenada,  271,  424.    Le6n, 
47,  57,  108-111,    150,  415,   424. 
Lerida,  385,  387,  388,  424.    Lugo, 
122,  123,  124,  425.     Oviedo,  92, 
93,  94.  108.     Palencia,  80,  151, 

425.  Santiago,  57.  107,  130-133. 
Salamanca.    108,    146-148,    152. 
Saragossa,    151,    376,    377,   378, 


Index 


433 


424.  Seville.  Ill,  150,  216,  232, 
285,  287,  289,  292,  293-315,  424. 
Segovia,     165,     166,     167,     168. 
Sigiienza,  150,  374,  424.     Tarra- 
gona, 393,  424.    Toledo,  150,  216, 
232  —  238,  415,  424.    Valladolid, 
56,  57.     Zamora,  117.  118,  424 

Catherine  of  Aragon,  28,  224,  342 
Cavadonga,  85,  86,  94,   102,  172, 

227,  406 

Cellini,  Benvenuto,  150,  216 
Cervantes  Saavedra,  Miguel  de,  69, 
72-78,  142,  155,  166,  189,  228, 
240,  249,  250,  253,  255,  326,  349 
Charles  I  of  England,  165 
Charles    V  (Charles   I   of   Spain), 
Emperor,  26,  39,  72,  129,  199, 
204,  216,  218,  223,  227,  249,  251, 
253,  261,  265,  269,  292,  365,  366, 
367,  368 

Charles  II,  218,  221 
Charles  IV,  171,  175,  226 
Chartres,  Cathedral  of,  81.  268, 400, 

415 

Chartreuse,  La  Grande-,  24 
Chesterton,  Mr.  Gilbert  K.,  100 
Churches,  Spanish:  Alcdntara;  S. 
Benito,  364,  424.  Asturias;  S. 
M.  de  Naranco,  95,  96,  97,  403. 
S.  Miguel  de  Lino,  96,  403. 
Avila;  Encarnacion,  convent  of, 
197,  199.  S.  Jose,  convent  of, 
190,  199,  200.  S.  Segundo,  205. 
Son  soles,  hermitage  of,  202,  203. 
S.  Tomas,  197,  203.  204,  205. 
Barcelona;  S.  Ana,  403.  S.  M. 
del  Mar,  403.  S.  M.  del  Pino, 
403.  S.  Pablo  del  Campo,  403. 
Burgos;  Las  Huelgas,  convent 
of,  49,  50.  Miraflores,  convent 
of,  48.  S.  Lermes,  47.  S. 
Nicolas,  46.  Cadiz;  S.  Felipe 
Neri,  71,  324.  Capuchin  church, 
823.  Gerona;  S.  Feliu,  425. 
Granada;  S.  Geronimo,  270. 
Madrid;  S.  Isidro,  57;  Leon; 
S.  Isidore,  107,  108,  123,  214, 

425.  S.    Marcos,    111.      Sala- 
manca;   S.   Esteban,    153,    154. 


Espiritu    Santo,    153.      Seville; 

S.    Magdalena,    314.      Omnium 

Sanctorum,  281.    S.  Paula,  281. 

S.     Marcos,     281.       University 

Church,  371.     Segovia;   S.  Mar- 
tin,  166.     S.   Millan,   166,  425. 

Toledo;    S.  Bartolome,  235.     S. 

Cristo  de  la  Luz,  231.    S.  Cristo 

de  la  Vega,  256.     S.  Domingo, 

235.    S.  M.  la  Blanca,  231,  425. 

S.  Juan  de  los  Reyes,  239.     S. 

Pedro   Martir,   252.     S.   Tome, 

235,    253.      El    Transito,    231. 

Valladolid;   S.  Cruz,  59.     S.  M. 

la  Antigua,  57.    S.  Gregorio,  59. 

S.  Pablo,  59 

Churriguera,  Jose  de,  25,  123,  152 
Churrigueresque  Architecture,   25, 

57,  123,  152,  207,  219,  376 
Cid  Campeador,  the,  50-54, 87. 108, 

116,  117,  129,  147,  230,  231 
Clavijo,  battle  of,  47,  96 
Coloma,  Padre  Luis,  343 
Colonna,  Vittoria,  227,  333 
Columbus,   Christopher   (Crist6bal 

Colon),  72,  78, 153, 154,  268.  301, 

395,  396 
Comuneros,  uprising  of  the,  72,  204, 

227,  366 
Constantinople,  75,  131.  217.  234, 

260,  262,  303 
Constitutions  of  Spain,  174.  176- 

180,  204,  324,  382,  383 
Cordova,  7,  87,  258-265,  281,  332 
Cordova,  Gonsalvo  de.  Gran  Capi- 

tdn,  227,  270,  319 
Cortes,  Hernan,  113,  146,  290 
Corufia,  4,  91,  122,  125,  126,  344. 

412 

Cranmer,  Thomas,  Archbishop,  68 
Crashaw,  Richard,  27,  191,  194, 198 
Creighton,  Mandell,  Bishop,  64 
Cromwell,  Oliver,  65 

DANTE  ALIGHIERI,  134,  414 
Daoiz,  Luis,  172,  324 
Darro,  river,  268,  271 
Democracy,    Spanish,    37,    49,   73, 
92,  99.  100,  112,  144,  152,   168, 


434 


Index 


202,  204,  228,  238,  284,  309,  336, 
345,  355,  358,  382,  392,  428 

Descartes,  Rene,  28,  194,  418 
Deza,  Diego  de,  153,  154 
Dickens,  Charles,  9,  282 
Domenech,  Sr.  Rafael,  234,  371 
Dominic,   St.    (de  Guzman),   114, 

319,  414 
Dominican  Order,  the,  59,  153,  197, 

203,  248 

"  Don  Quixote,"  9,  75,  76,  77,  85, 
92,  105,  107,  138,  170,  259,  326, 
327,  328,  331,  335,  341.  347,  354, 
374,  383 

Dos  de  Mayo  (May  2,  1808),  159, 
172,  176,  225,  323,  324,  379,  380 

Douro,  river,  117 

Dupanloup,  Felix  Antoine,  Mgr., 
189 

Durer,  Albrecht,  356 

Durham,  229 

EBRD,  river,  376 

Edward  I,  of  England,  49,  84 

Edward  VI,  of  England,  68 

Egypt,  35,  417 

Elche,  80,  310 

Eleanor    Plantagenet,     Queen    of 

Spain,  49,  50,  374 
El    Greco    (Domenikos   Theotoco- 

poulos),  215,  220,  234,  235,  238, 

370,  371 
Elizabeth  of  England  (Tudor),  63, 

372 
Ellis,  Mr.  Henry  Havelock,  quoted, 

314,  379 

Emmet,  Dr.  Thos.  Addis,  66 
England,  the  English,  6,  9,  40,  63, 

64,  66,  84, 112, 121, 140, 149, 170, 

172,  175,  180,  209,  282,  316,  332, 

352,  359,  370,  398,  405,  406,  417 
English  College,  Valladolid,  62,  63, 

71.72 
Erasmus,  Desiderius,  28,  244,  272, 

342 
Escorial,  the,  56,  194,  211,  213-219, 

234,  421 

Eslava,  Miguel  Hilari6n,  302,  315 
Espartero,  General,  178 


Espluga,  389,  390 

Estremadura,  7,  34,  105,  145,  351- 

368,  425 

Eugenie,  Empress,  114 
Eyck,  Jan  van,  224 

FERDINAND  I,  el  Magno,  116 
Ferdinand  III,   el  Santo,   50,  227. 

289,  292 
Ferdinand  V,  el  Catolico,  19,  72,  245, 

247,  249,  272,  378 
Ferdinand  VII.  173,  174,  176,  177, 

179,  381 
Feijoo  y  Montenegro,  Benito  Ger- 

6nimo,  70,  135,  136,  210 
Fernan  Caballero,  see  Caballero 
Feuillet,  Octave,  371 
Figueras,  428 
Fisher,  John,  Bishop,  68 
Fitzmaurice-Kelley,     Mr.     James. 

quoted,  193 

Flaubert,  Gustave,  346 
Ford,  Richard,  8,  65,  195,  219,  236, 

266,  282,  359 
Fortuny,  Mariano,  408 
Forment  Damian,  377 
France,  the  French,  6,  24,  33,  46, 

66,  104,  108,  144,  149,  163,  169, 

189.  251,  276,  347,  349,  371,  383. 

397,    400,    407,   410,    421,    423, 

427 
Francia,  Francisco  Raibolini,  called, 

323 
Francis  of  Assisi,  St.  47,  128,  195, 

218,  illustration  327 
Franciscan  Order,  the,  77,  225,  239, 
*  240,  249,  414,  417 
Francis  Borgia,  St.,  see  Borgia 
Francis  I,  of  France,  244,  227,  373 
Francis  de  Sales,  St.,  see  Sales 
Francis  Xavier,  St.,  see  Xavier 
French  Invasion,  the,  35,  54,  58, 

65,  142,  150,  157,  172,  176,  177, 

232,  270,  323,  335,  380,  382,  425, 

426,  427 
Froude,  James  Anthony,  40,  195 

GALDOS,   Benito  Perez,   see  Perez 
Galdos 


Index 


435 


Galicia,  4,  61,  105,  121-141,  159, 

344,  345 

Gallegos,  Fernando,  323 
Gandia,  Duke  of,  see   Borgia,  St. 

Francis 

Ganivet,  Angel,  22,  330,  420 
Garcilaso  de  la  Vega,  166,  227,  240, 

250-252,  253 
Gardner  Collection,  Boston,    Mrs. 

J.  L.,  224 
Gaudix,  151,  336 
Gautier,  Theophile,  20,   107,  226, 

295 

Gener,  Sr.  Pompeo,  410 
Germaine     de     Foix,     Queen     of 

Aragon,  19,  247,  272 
Germany,  6,  66,  112,  173,  237,  328 
Gerona,  8,  173,  179,  323,  379,  412, 

420-428 

Gibraltar,  2,  3,  96 
Gijon,  91,  412 
Godoy,    Manuel,    Prince    of    the 

Peace,  65,  171,  175 
Goethe,     Johan     Wolfgang     von, 

quoted,  33 

Gomez  de  Castro,  Alvaro,  242 
Gongora  y  Argote,  Luis  de,  252 
Gothic  Architecture,  46,  57,  80,  81, 

93,  108,  111,  115,  123,  147,  153, 

165,  167,  201,  216,  232,  233,  261, 

303,    307,    364,    374,    385,    387, 

391,  393,  403,  422 
Goths,  in  Spain,  the,  85,  96,  98, 

115,    219,    227,    230,    231,    235, 

318,  319,  368,  378 
Goya,  Francisco,  136,  220,  225,  226 
Granada,  7,  60,  88,  217,  227.  239, 

243,  244,  253,  265-273,  336,  406, 

424 

Granada,  Luis  de,  153,  252 
Gregorovius,  Ferdinand,  147 
Greece,  96,  134,  234,  416,  423 
Guadalajara,  8,  372,  373 
Guadaloupe,  368 
Guadalquivir,  river,  230 
Guadarrama    Mountains,    6,    170, 

214,  221 

Guardia  Civil,  the,  101,  401,  402 
Guipuzcoa,  14,  15 


Guizot,  Francois-Pierre-Guillaume, 

70 

Guzman  el  bueno,  106 
Guzman  family,  the,  106,  114,  251 
Guzman,  Domingo  de,  see  Dominic, 

St. 
Gypsies,  Spanish,  115,  267,  271 

HADRIAN,  Emperor,  281 
Hapsburg  Kings,  in  Spam,  70,  72, 

129,  204,  214,  324,  367 
Hegel,   Georg    Wilhelm   Friedrick, 

326 

Henry  II  of  England,  84 
Henry  VII  of  England,  269 
Henry  VHIof  England,  28,  85 
Hernandez,  Gregorio,  61,  62,  424 
Herrera,  Fernando  de,  poet,  252 
Herrera,  Juan  de,  architect,  56,  57, 

213,  376,  408 

Hervas  y  Panduro,  Lorenzo,  153 
Hobson,  Lieut.  Richmond  Pearson, 

370 

Hogarth,  William,  225 
Holy  Week  in  Seville,  302-315 
Hugo,  Victor,  13,  339 
Huysmans,    Joris-Karl,    183,    187, 

193,  225,  347,  385 

IGNATIUS,  St.,  see  Loyola 

Infantado,  Duke  del,  373 

Inquisition,  the  64-71,  136,  155, 
176,  245,  324,  365 

Invincible  Armada,  the,  40,  76,  90, 
279,  283 

Ireland,  66,  134,  178,  179 

Irish  College,  Salamanca,  153,  157, 
158 

Irun,  2,  16 

Irving,  Washington,  86 

Isabella  I,  the  Catholic,  48,  64,  72, 
85,  89,  129,  133,  137,  154,  162, 
166,  173,  180,  182,  203,  204,  217, 
227,  241,  242,  244,  245,  252,  268, 
272,  273,  292,  342,  379,  402,  429 

Isabella  II,  166,  173,  174,  177,  179 

Isabella  of  Portugal,  Empress,  223. 
illustration  253,  255 

Isidore,  San,  107,  319 


436 


Index 


Isla,  Jose  Francisco  de  la,  70,  153, 

210 
Islamism,  65,  87,  88,  243,  262,  263, 

264,  268,  417 
Italica,  278,  281,  289,  359 
Italy,  the  Italians,  5,  30,  60,  74,  96, 

107,  173,  223,  224,  251,  270,  272, 
276,  280,  281,  334,  349,  352,  370, 
377,  408 

JAIME  I,  d  Conquistador,  106,  227, 

391,  415 
James,  St.,  apostle,  &  de  Espafia, 

97,  114,  121,  246 
Jerez  de  la  Frontera,  316 
Jerusalem,  27,  121,  123,  263,  310, 

311,  417 
Jesuit  Order,  the,  20-32,  153,  225, 

255,  343 
Jews  in  Spain,  the,  67,  70,  88,  318, 

319,  332,  364,  365,  367,  368 
Jhnena,  wife  of  the  Cid,  50,  52,  53, 

108,  116 

Jimenez  de  Cisneros,  see  Ximenez 
John  of  Austria,  Don,  73,  76,  227, 

252 
John  of  the  Cross,  St.   (Juan  de 

Yepes),  44,  70,  199,  234,  252 
Jordan,  Esteban,  60 
Joubert,  Joseph,  13,  24,  149 
Juana  la  loca,  247,  271 
Juan  II,  48,  72,  113,  129 
Juan  de  la  Cruz,  San,  see  John  of 

the  Cross 
Juni,  Juan  de,  60 

LAFAYETTE,  General  de,  16 

La  Granja,  168,  170,  171,  173,  174, 

181 

Lainez,  Diego,  153,  255 
Lancaster,  John  of  Gaunt,  Duke  of, 

84 

Lannes,  Jean,  Marshall,  382 
Larra,  Mariano  Jose  de,  36 
Las  Huelgas,  convent  of,  49,  50, 153 
Las  Casas,  Bartolome  de,  59,  153, 

248 

Lea,  Henry  Charles,  70 
Lebrija,  Dona  Francisca  de,  342 


Lee,  Robert  E.,  General,  64 
Legazpi,  Miguel  Lopez  de,  18 
Leibnitz,   Gottfried  Wilhelm  von, 

194 

Lenonnant,  Charles,  70 
Leon,  city  of,  4,  83,  105,  106-113, 

114,  122,  214,  424,  425 
Le6n,  province  of,  4, 14, 34,  82, 104- 

120,  142,  157 
Le6n,  Luis  de,  44,  68,  70,  154-157, 

193,  210,  252,  319,  349 
Leonado  da  Vinci,  222,  370 
Lepanto,  Battle  of,  73,  75,  216,  227 
Lerida,  385-388,  412,  424 
Lilly,  Mr.  W.  S.,  quoted,  183 
Llorente,  Juan  Antonio,  65 
Lockhart,  James  Gibson,  52,  53 
Lombardy,  57,  74,  96,  107,  400 
London,  28,  220,  319,  417 
Longfellow,     Henry     Wadsworth, 

quoted,   316 
Lorraine,     Claude     Gelee,     colled 

Claude,  224 

Loti,  M.  Pierre,  148,  149,  371 
Louis  IX  of  France,  St.,  50,  375,  416 
Louis  Philippe  of  France,  177 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  quoted,  104, 

110,  121,  395 
Loyola,  4,  16,  19-32 
Loyola,    St.    Ignatius,    17,    19-32, 

153,  191,  252,  255,  319,  371,  394, 

403,  415,  427 
Lucca,  17,  122 

Lucero,  Diego  Rodriguez  de,  in- 
quisitor, 245 

Lugo,  4,  114,  122-125,  425 
Lull,    Ram6n    (Raimundo    Lulio), 

319,  395,  414-418 
Luna,  Alvaro  de,  72,  233 
Lusitania,  352 
Luther,  Martin,  192 

MACAULAY,  Thomas  Babbington, 
191 

Madrid,  2,  6,  7,  77,  80,  101,  114, 
141,  142,  146,  160,  166,  169,  172, 
176,  179,  213,  216,  219-228,  231, 
277,  286,  287,  292,  33G,  344,  349, 
355,  369-372,  410,  412,  419 


Index 


437 


Maimonides,  Moses,  88,  319 

Maistre,  Joseph  de,  70, 136 

Malaga,  102,  247 

Mallock,  Mr.  W.  H.,  quoted.  210 

Manresa,  27,  394,  403 

Manrique,  Jorge,  241,  250 

Mantegna,  Andrea,  224 

Maragatos,  the,  115 

Marcus  Aurelius,  242 

Mariana,  Juan  de,  153,  256 

Maria  Cristina  of  Austria,  Queen- 
Dowager,  Dona,  174,  180 

Martial,  376,  392 

Martyr,  Peter,  89,  272 

Mary  I  of  England  (Tudor),  66, 
68,  85,  223,  224,  372 

Masaccio,  Tommaso  Guidi,  called, 
110 

Mateo,  Maestro,  131,  132 

Mecca,  261,  263 

Medinaceli,  family  of,  290,  375 

Medina  del  Campo,  4,  160,  162,  164 

Medrano,  Dona  Lucia  de,  342 

Melanchthon,  Philipp,  68 

Memling,  Hans,  224 

Mena,  Juan  de,  250 

Mendoza,  family  of.  47.  242,  252, 
373 

Mendoza,  Diego  Hurtado  de,  252 

Mendoza,  Pedro  Gonzales,  Cardi- 
nal, 60,  238,  241,  242,  256,  268, 
374 

Menendez  y  Pelayo,  Marcelino,  67, 
70,  134,  156,  348-350 

Meredith,  George,  quoted,  55 

Merida,  145,  352-356,  363 

Messina,  74 

Michelangelo  Buonarroti,  60 

Mino  da  Fiesole,  48,  132 

Mino,  river,  4,  122,  124,  125,  138 

Miraflores,  Monastery  of,  48,  203, 
216 

Mistral,  Federi,  418 

Monforte,  122,  137,  138 

Montafi6s,  Juan  Martinez,  44,  308, 
371,  424 

Montesquieu,  Charles,  326 

Montserrat,  26,  27,  394 

Monz6n,  384 


Moore,  Sir  John,  125 

Moors,  the,  3,  13,  50,  51,  53,  67, 

83,  85,  86,  87,  88,  89,  94,  96,  115. 

116,  117,  129,  148,  178,  196,  205, 

216,  219,  227,  230,  235,  239,  243. 

244,  249,  258-270,  289,  300,  304. 

313,  318,  352,  364,  365,  367,  369. 

393,  415,  417 
Moorish  Art,  258,  267,  268,  280. 

281,  294,  379 
Moriscos,  Expulsion  of  the,  86,  89, 

90,  365 

More,  Sir  Thomas,  68 
Moro,  Antonio,  223,  224 
Motley,  John  Lothrop,  224,  380 
Mozarabic  Mass,  the,  235-238 
Mudejar  Architecture,  59,  231,  232, 

280,  290,  373 

Mtiller,  Prof.  Friederich  Max,  153 
Murat,  Joachim,  Marshall,  380 
Murcia,  105,  372 
Murillo,    Bartolome"   Esteban,   44, 

225,  234,  237,  253,  280,  293,  298, 

323,  370 
Mystics,  Spanish,  10, 11, 12,  22,  27. 

183,  186,  187,  191,  193,  195,  198, 

212,  242,  319.  331,  371,  414,  415. 

428 

NAPIER,  Sir  Wm.  F.  P.,  172 
Naples,  74,  270,  332,  397 
Napoleon  I,  35,  172,  173,  176,  382 
Navarre,  14,  29,  50,  79,  105,  247, 

372,  383 
Navas  de  Tolosa,  battle  of,  Las,  50, 

242 

Nelson,  Horatio,  Admiral,  370 
Neri,  St.  Philip,  31,  191 
Newbolt,  Mr.  Henry,  quoted,  413 
New  England,  64,   118,   148,  289, 

361,  397 
Novels,  Modern  Spanish,  93,  134, 

170,  195,  326-350 
Nunez  de  Arce,  Gaspar,  112,  415 

O'DONNELL    T     JORRIS,     General 

Leopoldo,  178 

Olivares,  Conde  Duque  de,  221 
Ommiade  dynasty,  the,  87,  88,  89 


Index 


Oran,  siege  of,  239,  246 

Ordofio  II  of  Le6n,  108 

O'Reilly,  Count  Alexander,  178 

Ormsby,  John,  51 

Osuna,  Duke  of,  47 

Oviedo,  4,  79,  90-103, 106, 108, 135, 

341,  342 
Oxford,  28,  68,  342,  143,  152 

PADILLA,  Juan  de,  227,  257 

Paestum,  ruins  of,  353 

Palafox,  Count  Jose,  380 

Palatinate,  the,  243 

Palencia,  4,  79,  80,  91,  190 

Palestine,  80,  94,  311.  416 

Palma,  415,  417 

Palos,  320 

Pamplona,  26,  30,  427 

Pancorbo,  Pass  of,  34,  35 

Pardo  Bazan,  Dona  Emilia,   125, 

134,  135,  328,  343-345 
Paris,  1,  28,  29,  142,  146,  415 
Parma,  323 
Parmegianino,  Mazzuoli  of  Parma, 

called.  224 

Parthenon,  the,  149,  268 
Pasajes,  16 

Pascal,  Blaise,  142,  240 
Patmore,  Coventry,  199 
Pavia,  battle  of,  227,  251,  292 
Pedro  I,  el  Cruel,  84 
Pelayo,  King,  85.  90,  93,  94,  95, 

108,  227 
Pereda,  Jose  Maria  de,  327,  328, 

336,  339,  340,  341,  346,  347,  350 
Perez  Galdos,  Sr.  Benito,  209,  327, 

328,  337-340,  346 
Persia,  88,  417 
Pescara,  Fernando  Francisco  d'Av- 

alos,  Marquis  of,  227,  251 
Philip  I,  el   Hermoso    (Archduke), 

245,  271 
Philip  II,  75,  85,  129, 157,  213,  216, 

217,  219,  223,  291,  372 
Philip  III,  90,  366 
Philip  IV,  4,  48,  221,  385 
Philip  V,  129,  171,  383 
Philippines,  the,  18,  203,  333 
Phoenicians  in  Spain,  the,  98,  318 


Pirates,  Moorish.  87,  89,  239,  246, 

247,  367 

Pizarro,  Francisco,  146,  364 
Plateresque   Architecture,    57,    58, 

59,  111,  152,  153,  154,  256,  261, 

353,  400 
Pliny,  392 
Poblet,  Monastery  of,  8,  106,  177, 

214,  388-391,  399,  425 
Polyglot  Bible,  the,  246,  247 
Pontevedra,  137,  138 
Pontius  Pilate,  391 
Port-Bou,  2,  8,  428 
Portico  de  la  Gloria,  57,  109,  130, 

154,  268,  424 
Portugal,  4,  134,  138,  176,  291,  292, 

349,  359,  361,  363 
Prado      Gallery,  —  Madrid,      the, 

220-226,  369-372 
Prescott,  W.  H.,  113 
Prim,  Juan,  General,  178,  179 
Proverbs,  Spanish,   108,  117,  156, 

219,  228,  240,  257,  281,  283,  328, 

334,  360,  383,  413 
Pyrenees,  the,  15,  29,  33,  86,  383, 

384,  420,  421,  422,  425 

QurftoNEs,  Suero  de,  114 
Quintana,  Manuel  Jose,  323 

RAMIBO  I  of  Asturias,  95,  98 
Ranke,  Leopold  von,  65,  70 
Raphael  Sanzio,  224 
Reconquista,  the,  86,  89,  101,  227, 

228,  268,  269,  319 
Redondela,  137 

Rembrandt  van  Rijn,  221,  224 
Renaissance  Art  hi  Spain,  48,  58, 

59,  91,  115,  152,  153,    154,    158, 

203,  205,  239,  256,  271,  364,  377, 

425 
Reyes  Catdlicos,  los,  133,  154,  239, 

266,  271,  357,  383,  395 
Ribadeneyra,  Pedro  de,  255,  256 
Ribera,  Jose    de,    Lo    Spagnoletto, 

225 
Ripalda,  Ger6nimo  de  Martinez  de, 

153 


Index 


439 


Ripoll.  Abbey  of,  394 

Rivas,  Angel  de  Saavedra,  Duque 

de,  332 
Roderick,  last  of  the  Gothic  kings, 

85,  230 

Roelas,  Juan  de  las,  225 
"Romancero  del  Cid,"  9,  50,  51, 

52,  53,  108,  116,  250,  326 
Romanesque  Architecture  in  Spain, 

48,  57,  94,  107,  111,  118,  121,  131, 

132,  147,  148,  152,  164,  166,  196, 

216,  385,  391,  393,  403 
Romanes,  George  J.,  quoted,  351 
Roman  remains  in  Spain,    7,    47, 

107,  114,  122,  143,  146,  164,  165, 

202,  352-356,  359,  362,  375.  393, 

425 
Rome,  30,  73,  115,  192,  220,  238, 

241,  250,  255,  281,  294,  305,  311, 

319 

Ruiz  de  Alarcon,  Juan,  327 
Ruiz  y  Mendoza,  Lieut.  Jacinto, 

324 

SAINTE-BEUVE,  Charles  Augustus 
de,  77 

Saints,  Spanish,  see  headings,  Al- 
cantara, Borgia,  Dominic,  Fer- 
dinand III,  John  of  the  Cross, 
Loyola,  Xavier,  Teresa 

Salamanca,  4,  28,  58,  89,  105,  142- 
158,  160,  167,  184,  189,  194,  203, 
205,  273,  298,  342,  424 

Sales,  St.  Francis  de,  27,  191 

Salic  Law,  the,  173,  174 

Salisbury,  cathedral  of,  80,  415 

Salmeron,  Alfonso,  153 

Santfio  Panza,  107,  165,  228,  334, 
341,  383 

Sancho  II,  el  Fuerte,  116 

Sancho  IV,  el  Bravo,  375 

San  Sebastian,  16,  20,  21,  22,  124 

Santander,  4,  91,  340,  346,  347,  348, 
412 

Santayana,  Prof.  George,  quoted, 
213,  293,  318,  367,  369 

Santiago,  Compostella,  4,  107,  109, 
121,  122,  125,  130-134,  141,  273, 
344,  424 


Santiago,  knights  of,  111,  178,  250, 

352,  374,  413 

Saragossa,  8,  173,  376-382 
Sassoferrato,      Giovanni     Battista 

Salvi,  of,  45,  376 
Schack,  Adolf  Fred,  von,  65 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  77 
Segovia,  6,  159-182,  213,  217,  269, 

273,  365,  396 
Seises,  dancing  of,  los,  12,  297,  298, 

299,  300 
Seneca,  319 
Servet,  Miguel,  68 
Seville,  7,  37,   76,   181,   189,   219, 

225,  230,  247,  270,  273,  274-315, 

323,  327,  345,  351,  371,  374 
Shakespeare,  William,  50,  224,  273, 

327,  336 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  250,  251 
Siege  of  Gerona,  173,  425-428 
Siege  of  Saragossa,  173,  380-382 
Sierra  Nevada,  the,  269,  292 
Sigiienza,  8,  238,  373,  374,  375,  392 
Siloe,  Gil  de,  48 
Simancas,  Archives  of,  67 
Soldiers  hi  Spanish  literature,  73, 

240,  250,  252,  337,  414 
Soto,  Domingo  de,  153 
Southwell,  Robert,  68 
Spencer,  Herbert,  210,  411 
Spinola,  Marquis,  222,  322,  370,  427 
Stirling-Maxwell,  Sir  William,  286 
Street,  George  E.,  110,  385 
Suarez,  Francisco,  153,  210 
Switzerland,  83,  103,  269 

TAGUS,  river,  9,  229,  230,  256,  359. 

363,  424 
Talavera,  Fernando  de,  Bishop,  68, 

244 

Tannenberg,  M.  Boris  de,  348 
Tarifa,  Siege  of,  106 
Tarragona,  8,  391,  392,  393,  412, 

424 
Teresa,  Saint,  10,  44,  62,  70,  159, 

166,  183-212,  234,  252,  331,  429 
Theodosius,  Emperor,  281 
Theotokopaulos,     Domenikos,    see 

El  Greco 


440 


Index 


Thompson,  Francis,  27,  254 
Ticknor,  George,  59,  69,  256 
Tintoretto,  Jocopo  Robusti,  called, 

215,  234 
Tirso  de  Molina  (Gabriel  Tellez), 

327 
Titian,  Tiziano  Vecelli,  called,  223, 

227,  234,  253,  372 
Toledo,  7,  9,  36,  57,  87,  88,  94,  108. 

146,  219,  229-257,  396,  424 
Toledo,    Archbishops    of,    77,    88, 

116,  241,  242 
Tolstoi,  Count  Lyoff,  342 
Tonnes,  river,  143,  206 
Tostado,  Bishop  Alfonso  de  Mad- 
rigal, el,  205 
Toulouse,  107 

Townsend,  Rev.  Joseph,  266,  401 
Trajan,   Emperor,    164,   281,   356, 

359,  362 
Trujillo,  364,  367 

URRACA,  of  Zamora,  Dona,  108, 117 

VALDES,  Sr.  Armando  Palacio,  195, 

345,  346 
Valencia,  53,  90, 105,  140,  150,  340, 

372 
Valera  y  Alcala  Galiano,  Juan,  155, 

326,  327,  328,  330-336,  339,  346, 

350,  413 
Valladolid,  4,  55-78,  129,  149,  219. 

241 

Van  Dyke,  Sir  Anthony,  224 
Vargas,  Luis  de,  297 
Vasari,  Giorgio,  115 
Vega,  Garcelaso  de  la,  see  Garcilaso 
Vega  Carpio,  Lope  Felix  de,  240, 

250,  256,  327,  363,  391 
Velarde,  Pedro,  172,  324 
Velasco,    Pedro    Fernandez,    Con- 
stable, 47 
Velasquez,  Diego  de  Silva  y,  6,  45, 

60,  220,  221,  222,  238,  370,  371, 

385,  427 

Venice,  30,  215,  234 
Verdaguer,  Jacinto,  418 
Veronese,  Paolo  Caliari,  catted,  224 


Ve"zinet,  Monsieur  F.,  341 
Victoria-Eugenia,  Queen  of  Spain, 

Dona,  18,  85,  165,  181,  287,  288, 

289,  290 

Vigarni,  Felipe  de,  44,  45,  233,  424 
Vigo,  4,  91,  134,  137 
Villena,  Marques  de,  47 
Vives,  Juan  Luis,  28,  70,  208 
Vincent  de  Paul,  Saint,  191 

WAMBA,  King,  230 

Wars,  Carlist,   14,   173,   174,   177. 

282,  389,  381 
War,  Peninsula,  125,  172,  323,  359. 

379-382,  425-428 
War,  Spanish- American,  18,  370 
Washington,  George,  136,  242 
Watson,  Mr.  William,  quoted,  229, 

396,  420 

Wellington,  Duke  of,  143,  172,  266 
Westminster  Abbey,  262,  415,  417 
Wesley,  John,  183 
Weyden,  Rogier  vander,  224 
Women,  Spanish,  21,  100,  102,  117, 

130,  133,  184,  204,  206,  272,  276, 

277,  290,  295,  313,  314,  328,  333, 

334,  342,  354,  381,  426,  428,  429 
Wood  Carvings,  Spanish,  43,   44, 

45,  46,  60,  61,  62,  illustration  327 
Worcester,  cathedral,  233 
Wordsworth,  William,  156,  379 

XAVIER,  St.  Francis,  29,  191,  252 

Xerez,  see  Jerez  de  la  Frontera 

Ximena,  see  Jimena 

Ximenez  de  Cisneros,  Francisco, 
Cardinal,  28,  59,  82,  142,  210, 
236-250,  272,  319,  366,  374 

YUSTE,  Convent  of,  199,  367,  368 

ZAMORA,  4,  105,  116-120,  143,  159. 

160,  161,  162,  341,  424 
Zaragoza,  see  Saragossa 
Zola,  Emile,  333,  343 
Zumarraga,  16,  17 
Zurbaran,  Francisco,  44, 220, 225 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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APR 


LD  21-loow-7,'33 


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